Chapter 4: Gold Digger

Every reporter on that porch turned to see what I'd do.

I smiled at Margaux.

"Then I'll make it a room you'll never forget," I said.

She laughed and went down the steps with her easel under her arm.

The owner gave me a room under the eaves with a bed that sang when I sat on it.

By Thursday the bridal suite had heart pine under the old pink carpet, and a band of painted seashells under the wallpaper.

I was on my knees oiling the floor when Brennan knocked on the open door.

"You need to stop," he said. "Stop talking to the press. Margaux's been crying for two days."

"She should try eighteen months on a scaffold. It really clears the sinuses."

He walked across my wet floor and held out an envelope.

"Two hundred and fifty thousand," he said. "From me, not my mother. You stop giving interviews, and you leave the Sea Cliff."

"I signed away eight million on Sunday. Why would I want a quarter of a million on Thursday?"

"Because you don't have anything."

I stood up.

"It's not your room," he said. "Nothing here is yours. After what you did, you should be grateful I'm offering anything."

"After what I did?"

He looked away and didn't answer.

I took the envelope and walked downstairs to the bar, and he followed me.

Two reporters were still at the bar. I held the envelope up so they could see it.

"Brennan Fitzroy brought me a check to keep quiet," I said.

Then I dropped it in the ice bucket and pushed it under with two fingers.

The old bartender looked at the bucket, then at Brennan.

He lifted the wine out, set it in a fresh bucket, and put the old one on the floor by the drain.

"Bad ice," he said.

Brennan went a dark, ugly red and walked out.

The bartender put a whiskey in front of me.

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