52 Reasons to Hate My Father (28 page)

No,
something in my head protests.
That’s not it
.

I know him from somewhere else. I’ve seen him in
person
before. Recently. I can almost hear the sound of his voice.

And for some reason, I remember him talking about evicting a chef …

Yes! That’s right!

He was the host of the party I worked the night before. He was the one I overheard speaking French to a group of people while I was passing around hors d’oeuvres. Before I was photographed by every media outlet on the planet while scooping trash off the sidewalk.

I shudder at the memory and quickly turn the page to try to smother it.

But even as I continue reading the rest of the article, that man’s face lingers in my mind. Something feels very wrong here. My instincts are telling me there’s something off about the whole situation.

I flip back to LaFleur’s photograph and stare intently at it, trying to figure out what I’m missing. If he really
is
a French version of my father, then I have every reason to be distrustful of him.

But unfortunately, I have no idea why. So I turn the page once again and keep reading.

My eyes skim the remainder of the text until I get to the part about my father starting out his career in the copy room of a small newspaper in Fresno and going on to build his empire. I stop and gape at the page. What interests me at this moment is not what’s written in the article—I’ve already heard that particular story a million times—but the sidebar that appears
next
to the article. This one happens to be a list.

A list of successful people who have started at the very bottom. Just like my father.

And my eyes can’t devour it fast enough.

Michael Dell, the founder and CEO of Dell, started out washing dishes in a Chinese restaurant before going on to start one of the biggest computer companies in the world. Warren Buffett worked in a grocery store before becoming a world-famous billionaire entrepreneur. Barack Obama and Madonna both worked in fast food. Walt Disney started out as a paperboy. Rod Stewart was a gravedigger. Jerry Seinfeld was a telemarketer. Donald Trump was a rent collector.

I nearly fall off my suitcase.

The list reads exactly like the one that’s now sitting at the bottom of my trash can.

The 52-reasons-to-hate-my-father list.

The seemingly random jobs I’ve been forced to do over the past few months have not been random at all. They’ve been carefully selected. Because of the people that once started out in them. Successful, influential people who have managed to climb their way to the top from those very jobs.

I sit in the middle of the empty airport tarmac, completely flabbergasted. And then something echoes in my brain.

“For once in your life, Lex, can’t you just trust that someone else might know what’s good for you? That your father might have your best interests at heart?”

No. I couldn’t believe that. At least not at the time Bruce Spiegelmann first uttered those words to me on that fateful day in his office. But now I’m starting to wonder if I could. If maybe my father does have some kind of redeemable quality about him. And if maybe this list is the proof.

Well, even if it is, I know it’s not enough.

I need more. And I think I know where I can find it.

ON THE SAFE SIDE

The door to my father’s study opens with an eerie creak. The way doors tend to in scary movies. I place the master key Horatio gave me into the pocket of my jeans and hesitantly step inside. I haven’t been in this room since I was a child. And even then I was terrified of setting foot in it. Because it meant seeing my father. Talking to him. Interacting with him. And that was always a petrifying notion.

For as long as the Larrabee family has owned this house, there’s only ever been one reason to enter this room and that’s because my father was in it. And for the last ten or so years of my life, whenever my father was in the house, I’ve learned how to make myself scarce.

But one thing I never did—I’d never
dare
to do—was come in here alone.

For starters, the room itself has a certain menacing quality to it. The dark wood, the tall bookcases, the low light seeping in from between the thick branches that shade the windows. It’s more like a hidden cavern than an office. Even the Van Gogh hanging on the wall—a portrait of a forlorn man sitting next to a dying flower—is known to be one of his darkest paintings.

Most people like bright rooms with lots of natural light and color and cheerfulness. But not my father. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if he specifically chose this room because it
wasn’t
all those things. And I have to say, the baleful ambience suits him perfectly.

I grapple for the light switch on the wall. It turns on a single dim lamp on the desk, making the murky shadows contort into odd, shapeless creatures that I swear are watching me. Wondering what this uninvited stranger is doing roaming around their hidden lair. I take a deep breath and remind myself that I’m being silly. It’s just a room. Like any other room in this house.

The fact that the only memories I have of this place are of my father sitting at that desk and staring down at me intimidatingly is irrelevant.

He’s not here now. And that’s what matters.

I shake my head to clear it and get to work searching. Careful not to leave any evidence of my visit, I start with bookshelves and cabinets and then move on to drawers. But the problem is, I’m not even sure what I’m looking for. Something exonerating. Something to prove that my father isn’t a monster. That there’s more to the story.

To be honest, at this point I’d settle for an old shoe box filled with photographs of my mother.
Real
photographs. Ones that used to occupy frames and decorate mantels. The kind of pictures taken by amateur photographers with cheap disposable cameras. Not the kind that require lighting setups and a crew of ten people.

Maybe if I could just see her as she truly was—not as the publicists wanted her to be—then I would feel better.

But after thirty minutes of tearing the place apart and putting it all back together to cover my tracks, I’m still no closer to any answers.

I’ve searched every cupboard, drawer, shelf, filing cabinet, nook, and cranny there is and I’ve found nothing of interest. If my father is keeping any information about my mother—or anything that might change my opinion of him—it’s not in here.

I turn toward the Van Gogh painting on the wall and observe the sad man’s face and the wilting flower on the table in front of him. His desolate expression mirrors my own.

Maybe he’s been looking for something as well. Something he can’t seem to find.

I step closer to the painting and suddenly notice a detail about it that I didn’t see before. For some strange reason, it doesn’t appear to be flush with the wall. It looks like there’s a tiny gap between the frame and the paneling behind it.

Then again,
I think to myself, taking another step forward,
maybe the sad man’s not looking for something. Maybe he’s
hiding
something.

I walk around my father’s desk and press my cheek to the wall, closing one eye in an effort to peer behind the painting.

Just as I suspected, there’s something back there.

Ever so carefully, I grab the base of the frame and lift it but the painting doesn’t budge. After a moment of contemplation, I decide to try another tactic. I pull the painting toward me. It starts to move, swinging open from right to left like a doorway.

Behind it, embedded in the wall, is a rectangular metal safe with a combination lock.

My heart gallops inside my chest in excitement.

This is it. This is what I’ve been looking for. It
has
to be.

The only problem now is getting it open.

I try every combination of numbers I can think of: my father’s birthday, my mother’s birthday, RJ’s birthday, even my
own
birthday, but none of them work. I Google the date my father’s company went public and try that. No dice.

I rack my brain for other clues. A combination that would make sense for my father. Something that has
meaning
to him. But, of course, I come up short. The man is a zombie.
Nothing
has meaning to him.

But then I think back to the portrait hanging over the fireplace in the next room. The empty look in my father’s eyes. The same look I saw on those grieving people at the funeral home.

I swivel the Van Gogh painting back around so that I can scrutinize the face of the man guarding the safe. I study the way he’s leaning into his hand, his mouth drawn into a hopeless frown. He too is mourning something.

I return my focus to the safe and slowly dial the following numbers in order: 01-27-00.

The date of my mother’s death.

The lock clicks open.

I pull the heavy metal door toward me. Inside I find countless stacks of cash in various currencies. Probably totaling more than ten million dollars. I bypass the money and instead reach for the dark wooden box sitting at the back of the safe.

I place it on my father’s desk and lower myself into the chair. Slowly, I unhook the metal clasp and lift the lid. Photographs of all shapes and sizes are contained within. Every memory of my mother that my father hid away. Wedding photos, honeymoon pictures, snapshots, candids, Polaroids, even a strip of photographs from one of those cheesy booths you find in arcades. My mom is every age in these pictures. Baby to teenager. Child to adult. Her smile is radiant. Her eyes are warm. Her face is flushed with color.

One photo in particular stands out. It’s a small, wallet-sized picture. I assume it must be a school photo. She appears to be about my age. So I’m guessing she was in high school when it was taken.

I sit paralyzed as I stare into it, taking in the shape of her face. Every curve, every point, every line. Her clothes might be dated. Her hairstyle might be ripped from the eighties. But one thing is for certain.

It’s like looking into a mirror.

We’re practically identical.

My paralysis finally lifts and I place the school photo aside and continue sifting through the rest of the pictures, until I finally come to the bottom of the box. But the last item I find is not a photograph. It’s a plain white piece of paper.

I flip it over and, with a hard swallow, glance at the top of the page.

O
FFICIAL
C
ORONER’S
R
EPORT FOR
E
LIZABETH
L
ARRABEE

A coroner’s report?

Why would my father lock up something like this? My mother died in a car accident. Her BMW was crushed by a giant eighteen-wheeler. It says so right here in the cause-of-death section. What more is there to know?

But as I glance farther down the page, I quickly come to realize that there is, in fact, a
lot
more to know. More than I was ever meant to find out.

I come to the line describing the alcohol level in my mother’s bloodstream at the time of her death and my eyes stop dead in their tracks. There’s no need to read any farther. All of my questions have suddenly been answered. In a mind-numbing, blood-boiling, breath-stealing flash.

My mother died with a blood-alcohol concentration of 0.28. More than three times the legal limit.

With the document clutched tightly in my hand, I bolt out of the office and call for Kingston. He appears in the foyer a moment later.

“Yes, Miss Larrabee?” he prompts.

“I need a ride. Right now.”

He nods obligingly. “I’ll pull the car around front.”

I should have done this a long time ago. There’s only one person, besides my father, who knows all the secrets of this family. And it’s been his job to protect them.

“Where to?” Kingston asks as I climb into the backseat of the limo.

“Take me to see the Lieutenant.”

LIKE MOTHER, LIKE DAUGHTER

By definition, a lieutenant is someone who assists the captain in all matters pertaining to the successful running of a ship. In the Larrabee family, these duties include distributing trust-fund checks, administering wills, and managing the aftermath of drunk-driving accidents caused by delinquent teenage daughters, among other things.

In our family, these responsibilities are handled by the one and only Bruce Spiegelmann, who looks up from a stack of paperwork on his desk and flashes me a smile when I step into his office and close the door behind me.

“Lexi,” he says, rising to his feet to greet me. “What a pleasant surprise. What brings you down here?”

I don’t waste any time with small talk. I simply lower myself into the chair across from him and get right to the point. “I’m here to talk about my mother.”

There’s a flash of something unrecognizable on Bruce’s face. I have an inkling he knew this day would come. It was only a matter of time.

“Your mother was a wonderful woman,” he says patiently.

“Yeah, yeah,” I hear myself intone. “Maternal, supportive, loving, all those things, right?”

He chuckles lightly but I know it’s a cover for something else because I hear the anxiety in his voice. I see the discomfort in the way he shifts in his chair. And I know what it means when he starts to gnaw on the inside of his cheek.

“I guess everyone failed to mention that she also had a drinking problem.”

Bruce freezes and gives me a long, hard stare. I pull the coroner’s report from my bag and slide it across the table to him. Bruce takes one look at it, closes his eyes, and pinches the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger.

“She died in a drunk-driving accident. And
she
was the drunk one!” My voice rises as I struggle to keep my temper in check. “Don’t you think I had a right to know that?!”

“Yes,” he replies softly. “I do.”

I shake my head in confusion and lean forward. “Excuse me?”