12 
12 BACK IN THE CAR HEATHER LEANED FORWARD toward Paul. “I want to take Sasha to Dad’s work.”
I turned to Heather, half a gummy worm hanging out of my mouth, and looked at her as if she’d had a stroke or something. “You want to go to your Dad’s office?”
Heather nodded. “Yeah. He’ll be happy to show off his office, and you haven’t been to Wall Street yet. The Financial District is at the tip of the island.”
“How long will it take to get there?” I asked.
“I’m not psychic, Silver. It depends on traffic. But probably, like, twenty minutes,” Heather said.
Twenty minutes to freak out about being in an office (read: small space!) with Mr. Fox. This seemed like a bad idea, but maybe Heather really thought it would help her relationship with her dad if she brought her friend to his office. That did kind of make sense.
“Have you visited his office lately?” I asked.
Heather shrugged. “I went to the office Christmas party, but that was the last time.”
I tried to swallow, but my throat was dry. Mr. Fox was intimidating away from work—I couldn’t imagine how he’d act at his job. He’d probably—no, definitely—be even more intense in business mode.
“This is the Financial District,” Heather said once we were surrounded by imposing buildings. “Different from Midtown, huh?”
I looked out the car window and couldn’t tilt my head enough to see the tops of the buildings. Each building was taller than the one next to it, and they all seemed to have a thousand gleaming windows. Men and women in suits and business clothes hurried up and down the sidewalks, carrying briefcases. I watched the women walking in high heels, wondering how they managed to walk so fast in heels like that on the NYC sidewalks. I’d fall on my face after one step.
“Here we are,” Paul said. “I have to run an errand for your mom, Heather, then I’ll be back waiting for you both, whenever you’re finished.”
We got out of the car and walked up to a revolving door. Heather walked through first, and I followed her. Inside the lobby, it was freezing. But it wasn’t just the temperature that made the building feel subzero—it was also the lack of decor in the room. Everything looked so cold, and as if nothing was supposed to be touched. A glass table in front of a leather couch had business and financial magazines spread across it. There weren’t any paintings on the white walls, and it didn’t feel like a welcoming place.
Heather headed for a counter, where a burly security guard was eyeing us.
“Names?” he asked. He stared at us like we were kids who didn’t belong in the building. A gold badge pinned to his white shirt said r. curtis. I tried not to shrink back behind Heather.
“Heather Fox and Sasha Silver,” Heather answered. “We’re here to see Mr. Fox, on the eleventh floor.”
“Hold, please,” the guard said. He flipped through a giant binder and ran his finger down a list of names. His big fingers punched the buttons on a phone.
“Hello, Eileen,” he said. “I have Heather Fox and a friend to see Mr. Fox.”
He listened, nodding. “Thank you. I’ll send them up.”
Mr. Curtis slid a clipboard toward us. “Sign your names here, and note the time.”
Heather printed her name and wrote down the time. I did the same and handed back the clipboard.
Mr. Curtis got out from behind the desk and walked us up to an electric arm that blocked the elevators. He ran his plastic security pass over a blinking red light, and a beep sounded. The arm moved out of the way, and Mr. Curtis motioned for us to walk through.
“Thanks,” Heather said. We walked toward the elevators, and Heather pushed one of the up buttons. The floor was white marble mixed with gold flecks, and it was a gorgeous space.
“Whoa,” I whispered. “So high-tech.”
Heather shook her head. “That guy must have been new. Usually they ask for a photo ID, scan it, and make you carry this printed-out sticker that you have to present if a guard asks for it.”
“Seriously?”
“Yep.”
“Scary.” I couldn’t imagine working in a building like this.
The elevator chimed and the doors opened. Heather and I stepped inside the red-carpeted elevator, and she pressed the button for the eleventh floor.
“I hope your dad isn’t mad that we’re here,” I said.
Heather stared at me. “Did we not go over this, like, five minutes ago? He’s all about ego—he’s going to want to show off his office. Plus it’ll probably get me on his good side for once, so just go with it.”
“Okay,” I said. I did want to help with her dad if I could.
I watched the numbers climb, and it felt like we’d just stepped into the elevator when it stopped at the eleventh floor. The doors slid open, and Heather and I walked down a short hallway to another lobby. This one was much smaller, and a woman sat behind a counter with a Bluetooth piece in her ear.
“Yes, Mr. Simon,” she said. “I’m scheduling your four o’clock lunch right now.” Her fingers were moving so fast over the keyboard in front of her—I had no idea how she did it and talked at the same time. Heather and I stopped in front of the desk and waited.
The woman pressed a button on her earpiece and looked up at us. “How may I help you?” she asked.
“We’re here to see Mr. Fox,” Heather said.
“Ah, right. Miss Fox,” the receptionist said. “I called your father but got his voice mail. His schedule is clear at the moment, though, so feel free to wait in his office.”
She turned away from the counter, and we walked down a gray-carpeted hallway. There was an office every few feet, and most of the doors were closed. I could hear people talking on their phones through the closed doors and the constant clicking of computer keys. Heather and I passed a small kitchen with a sink, espresso maker, and fridge.
“His office is right down here,” Heather said as we sidestepped a woman taking a sip of a steaming cup of something as she hurried down the hallway.
We turned a corner and Heather paused for a second, then walked toward an open door.
“Dad?” she said, peering into the office.
I looked over her shoulder and saw that the office was empty. Behind Heather I stepped inside and looked at Mr. Fox’s office. He had a giant, dark wooden desk with a leather chair. There was a slim computer monitor on the desk, and a giant mug of black coffee was next to the keyboard. A yellow legal pad had numbers scrawled on it, and a pile of papers were stacked in a neat pile at the end of the desk. A metal file cabinet was next to a black bookcase that was full of thick binders. Heather walked over and looked out the window.
“Nice office,” I said. “It’s, um, big.”
But what I wanted to say was that the office was as impersonal as the lobby. There wasn’t a plant, or anything that made it feel inviting. Then I realized what else was missing. There wasn’t one family photo.
Not of Heather.
Or her mom.
Or the Fox family.
No posed pictures. No smiling photos from a family vacation. Nothing.
It had to hurt Heather’s feelings to come to her dad’s work and not to see one picture of herself anywhere. Both of my parents had family pictures in their offices at work. Dad even had one of me hugging Charm—he was part of the family too.
There were two chairs in front of the desk, and Heather sat down in one. I perched on the edge of the other chair, wringing my hands. I just wanted this to be over!
“Dad’ll probably show us around the floor,” Heather said. “I’m sure he’ll want to introduce us—well, you, really—to some of his coworkers.”
Fingers crossed they weren’t as intense as Mr. Fox.
Footsteps approached the doorway, and Heather and I stood and turned to face the door.
“Please step into my office,” Mr. Fox said. A man in a suit and red tie stepped inside, briefcase in hand. I wondered if he was one of Mr. Fox’s coworkers.
“Hi, Dad,” Heather said with a smile when he walked through the door.
Mr. Fox’s dark brown eyes narrowed when he saw us. “Heather?” he said. “What are you doing at my office during work hours?”
Heather’s smile started to slip, but she managed to keep it on her face. “I wanted to show Sasha where you work,” she said, her tone light. “She hasn’t been to the Financial District before, and it’s kind of cool that you work on Wall Street and everything.”
Mr. Fox looked at the man, who stood off to the side. “I apologize, Henry. I’ll be right with you.”
“Heather,” Mr. Fox said, taking her by the arm. “I’m with a client right now. You should have known better than to show up unannounced at my office. You and Sasha need to leave.”
Heather swallowed, nodding. Her cheeks flushed, but she managed to keep her composure. “Sorry we interrupted.”
Heather turned and I was right behind her on the way out of Mr. Fox’s office.
I wanted to scream at Mr. Fox. He was without a doubt the worst father on the planet. I understood that he had a meeting, but he could have asked us to wait a few minutes. And he didn’t even introduce his daughter to his client. He’d treated Heather like a random kid who’d showed up in his space—not his daughter who’d been trying to make an effort with her dad.
“Heather,” I said. I touched her elbow as we walked down the hallway. “Are you okay?”
Heather shrugged. “Whatever. Shocker. I should have expected it. Like he couldn’t have taken five minutes to show us around. Or say sorry that we came down here to see where he works.”
Her tone was angry, but there was a wobble to her voice. He’d gotten to her—not that she was going to admit that her feelings were hurt.
“Sorry.”
“Stop saying sorry, okay?” Heather looked at me, and her eyes were slightly pink. “I’m not sorry. Just annoyed that I wasted my time. I do have more important things to do, you know, than come to Wall Street and sit around waiting for my dad. And I’m over talking about it.”
I just nodded.
We got in the elevator, and this time it seemed to take forever to get back to the ground floor.
Heather flew out of the elevator the second the doors opened, and I almost had to jog to keep up with her. We walked past security, ignoring the sign-out sheet and the guard. Heather pushed the revolving door so hard, I had to wait for the second space to come around because the one behind her went by too fast.
Just like he said he would be, Paul was waiting in the car. He had the front windows rolled down and was doing a crossword puzzle. He looked up when he heard us approaching the car.
Heather yanked open the car door and actually slid across the backseat. I knew better than to make a joke about her earlier comment about how she didn’t “slide.”
Paul started the car and looked back at us. He saw Heather staring out the window, arms crossed.
“Was your dad out?” Paul asked, his tone gentle.
“Nope.”
That was all Heather said.
Paul watched her in the mirror for a second and seemed to realize that something had happened.
“I’ll take you home,” he said.
The ride back from Wall Street to Park Avenue was silent.