Secret Beast - Amelia Wilde Page 0,1

nuanced arguments about literature and trying to tie up the semester’s loose ends and now my dad’s terrible, reckless idea. “You can’t do this.”

“Don’t worry, sweetheart.” My father takes my face in his hands. “Everything will work out. I’ll see you both after my meeting. Back in time for dinner.”

“Eat with us before you go.” I catch him by the sleeve. “We can talk about your pitch.”

He winks at me. “I’ve already got it perfect, thanks to you. If I don’t go now, I’ll be late.”

His coat is already going on over his shirt and tie and dress pants that haven’t been ironed. My dad takes his keys from their hook with a flourish. I have the childish desire to tackle him somehow, to put my arms around his waist and keep him here, but I'm five foot two. I’m a hundred and ten pounds. That's not going to work. He’s a grown man. A grown man with the power to ruin us.

He opens the door, letting in a gust of icy wind, and goes out with a dapper wave.

My shoulders sag. My soul sags. And I round on Cash. "Why did you let him meet with a Morelli? You were here all day."

"Don't come after me, Hales. I tried to warn him." Cash presses his lips into a thin, frustrated line. "He won't hear anything about it. I don’t even think Petra could have convinced him.

Our oldest sister, Petra, would have had the best shot. She’s reasonable. And patient. Now she lives with her husband and stays up late organizing charity events. She isn’t home anymore, and neither was I. That’s how this happened.

Guilt makes my throat ache. Guilt and worry. “I’m sorry. You couldn’t have stopped him. I know that. What do we do now?”

“No idea.” Cash watches me cross the room and fall onto the couch beside him. “I didn’t know the phone calls were any different.”

On a normal day, my dad’s voice floats up from the workshop for hours. Making connections, he calls it. He starts every call by saying, this is Phillip Constantine, and I want to change the world. He’s a well-meaning engineer who tries so hard it kills me. The relief I felt at completing another semester is gone, replaced by dread. “Did he say which Morelli he was meeting?”

“No. He just raved about the guy. Apparently he’s found the only honorable, whip-smart Morelli on the planet. Focused.” Cash mimics Dad’s voice. “He’s focused.”

“Focused on hating us.” That’s what the Morellis do. They hate our family. They poke and prod and insult our family. There is no earthly way that a Morelli genuinely wants to help my dad get his invention into people’s hands across the world. They’re more likely to steal it, or starve it of money. Either way, the work would die with them. My dad’s dream would die.

Cash doesn’t say anything to that. How am I supposed to cook now? How am I supposed to root through the fridge and put something on the stove and chat with Cash while he sets the table? We’d both have to pretend our dad isn’t taking the biggest risk of his life. I can’t do it.

My stomach clenches.

Living the way we do is already a risk. In general, our family doesn’t tolerate outliers, like our cousin Elaine. Behind the shimmering facade of the Constantine lifestyle there are sharp edges underneath. The claws come out if you step out of line, and my dad has been out of line for years. Our house is too small. It's not in a prestigious area of Bishop's Landing. We don't have maintenance staff. No maids, no gardeners. When we were younger, my dad's brother would argue with him about it in cultured Constantine tones that cut to the quick.

I heard the things he said. Disgrace. Embarrassment. Barely a Constantine.

All because we don’t care about flashy things and real estate.

What would they do if they found out he’s aligned himself with a Morelli? I rub my palms over my jeans. It’s too soon to get lost in anxiety about our family’s reaction to this Morelli investor. This possible investor. This is only the first meeting, I hope, and my dad wouldn’t sign anything without talking it through first. I’m sure he wouldn’t.

A knock sounds at the door. I leap up from the couch to answer it. Oh, sweet relief. “He changed his mind,” I tell Cash. “You have to help me this time. Convince him to stay. If