Rooming with the Wicked

20 | uninvited guests

"Sounds like maybe three or four people," Syn said, brows furrowed. "Can't say for sure."

Blinking away the burning moisture that had accumulated in the corners of my eyes, I cleared my throat. My voice still broke when I asked, "Here as in coming down here?"

What the hell was happening to me? So, what? There was a folder—an empty folder—with Mom's name on it. So, freaking what? That didn't have to mean anything.

But it could mean everything.

"No...upstairs elevator." Syn crouched next to me and stuffed the list along with numerous loose papers back into the box. "But we probably shouldn't linger."

When I still didn't move, his hand touched my shoulder, featherlight. "Ariel. We need to go."

I swallowed and pushed to my feet. He was right, of course. This was much bigger than me and I couldn't be selfish now. She wasn't coming back. Still, I had to force myself to let go of the folder.

If Syn noticed my hesitation, he didn't show it. Instead, he made sure to grab the rest of the papers, close the container, and place it in its spot on the shelf. "I know we didn't find much, but these names are a start," he said, moving toward the door. "A solid start."

A part of me wanted to pull the box right back off the shelf, grab the empty folder, and tear it to shreds. And then shove those shreds in Dad's face just to see his reaction. But what good would that do?

"Ariel."

Right, we were about to be discovered.

"Sorry," I sighed, straightening my shoulders. Now was not the time to lose it.

"Is your brother throwing a party or something?" Syn asked as he shut the door and snapped the lock back into place. "There's gotta be at least a dozen people up there now."

"Wouldn't surprise me," I grumbled. At least this way it would be easy for us to slip right past him and leave. Hopefully.

By the time we made it back up to Dad's office, even I could hear the hum of conversations and the low thrum of music from somewhere in the penthouse. Clarence's distinctly annoying laugh drifted down the hallway as I quietly closed the office door behind us. To get back to the stairwell, we would have to pass the main living room and the hallway leading into the kitchen. If we were lucky—fingers crossed—my brother or some of his friends weren't occupying the couches.

I turned to Syn. "Wait here. If the coast is clear, I'll wave and we can leave."

He frowned. "Don't you live here too?"

"Sometimes, why?"

"Why are we sneaking then?"

Why did he have to be such a smartypants?

Telling him that I shared my so-called home with a racist, not to mention armed, asshole did not seem like the best idea. Even if he didn't blame me, it would probably put a damper on this new blossoming friendship-type thing. Yes, friendship. Syn was cool, okay? Sue me for not wanting to be written off just like that because of Clarence. I'd lost enough thanks to him.

"My stepbrother and I don't exactly get along," I said instead. "I'd rather avoid running into him."

Syn crossed his arms. "Can't blame you, I guess. They've been trash-talking non-stop since we came upstairs."

Right, he could hear them. All the more reason to get out of here quickly before one of them said something actually bad.

"Yeah, he's kind of a tool." I tried to laugh it off but judging by Syn's arched brow, I was doing a crappy job. Great. "Give me a sec," I grumbled, already backing away from him and toward the increasingly loud music.