Page 73 of Turning Back

“She’s very cute, Rochelle,” Smith says.

“Thank you,” I mumble.

“So you really don’t know who the father is?” he asks.

I don’t even bother answering that stupid question. “What did you want to talk about?” I ask, trying to find a polite way to move this along so he’ll get the hell out.

Smith chuckles as he gathers up all Adley’s colored blocks and starts stacking them. Adley watches him intently. Her eyes follow each move from the time he picks up a block, until the time he stacks it. She never loses focus. “It’s not me who needs to talk.”

“OK,” I say. “What do you want to know?” I have found it’s far easier to give Smith Baldwin what he wants than it is to fight with him. Giving in makes him go away.

“I want to know,” Smith says, placing the last block on top of the swaying tower, “who that guy was you were arguing with on the corner of Fifteenth and Champa the day before you disappeared. Because I was stuck at a red light that day and I saw you.”

I stop breathing.

“And as a follow-up,” Smith says, standing up and then sitting back down in the chair, “I want to know if that guy is the reason you don’t want a DNA test.”

I inhale and then let it out with a chuckle. “Get the fuck out.”

He ignores my order. Just absently rubs a palm across his scratchy jaw. “I know what you are, Rochelle. I might not know anything about your past, but I saw enough of you while we were together to form an opinion. You’re an opportunist. You got yourself invited into the game. You played until you got what you needed. And then you left to go get something else. So why are you here?”

My stomach tightens up. I feel sick for exactly three seconds as I internalize his characterization of me. “I know what you are too. And we’re not so different.”

“Is that so? Do you think we’re equals, Rochelle?”

“Well.” I laugh. “We’re both playing the same game, Smith. So I’d have to say yes. We are equals.”

He thinks about this for a little while.

“Do you know why I decided to give my money away?” he finally asks.

“I have no clue. And I don’t really care. I’m not here for anyone’s money. Certainly not yours. I’m happy to pay back what you gave me. In fact, I insist on it. I will have that money—”

“Because rich people are weird, you know?” He looks at me with one eyebrow raised, like that question was not rhetorical and he’s expecting me to agree.

“Oh, you guys are weird all right. Bric and his game. Quin and his revenge. I get the picture, thanks.”

“We grow up segregated from the real world. In my case, it was the good kind of segregation. Up in Aspen—”

“Yeah, because Aspen is not a microcosm of rich assholes. Not at all.”

“—in the fresh air. All that nature shit people are into up there. The hiking, the kayaking, the skiing. Whatever. It’s a good life for a boy. But you, Rochelle. You didn’t get Aspen, did you?”

I say nothing. He has no idea what he’s talking about and he’s certainly not going to be the first person in Denver who gets to hear my story. No way.

“Anyway,” he says, waving a hand in the air. “It took me a long time to figure you out. But I did figure you out. Can you guess when I figured you out, Rochelle?”

“Hmmm,” I say, putting a finger to my lips like I’m pretending to think. “When you stopped coming by the apartment on Fridays?”

So what if he sees through me? I don’t care. I don’t have to care about his opinion. I’m not even here for him.

“Yes,” he says, pointing his finger at me. “That’s exactly when I figured you out.” He opens his mouth like he’s going to say more. But then reconsiders and stays silent. But as the moments tick off, his face changes. His whole expression, really.

Anger, I realize. He’s silent right now because he’s angry.

“What do you want?” I ask.

His jaw is clenching. And those eyes… they are filled with hate. He hates me. I have never understood that, but it’s always been there. What the fuck did I ever do to him? Nothing. I’ve done nothing to him. I don’t deserve this asshole’s scrutiny.