Sleight of Hand

Chapter 1

"M

ooom, do we have to go?" fifteen-year-old Tom Drummond whined as their mom ushered him and his younger sister, Sierra, toward the front door.

"Yes, honey, you have to. Your father and I made arrange­ments for you all to stay over for the night."

She kissed them both on the forehead, and opened the door for them. Warmth wafted in from the late-June sun—a blessing, as it usually rained a lot in summer where they lived in the small town of McClellanville, South Carolina. A polished, expensive-looking car waited outside in their driveway.

Tom and Sierra shared a glance, and both rolled their eyes.

"Bye, Mom," Sierra said dejectedly, and walked down the concrete stairs of their small porch and to the car. Tom sighed and followed, turning to wave goodbye. They climbed in the back of their father's car, and buckled their seat belts silently as their father—a man with dark, well-groomed hair and a business suit on—twisted in the driver's seat to look at them.

"Hey, kiddos, ready to go?" he asked with a too-bright smile. Sierra avoided eye contact and nodded. Tom merely cocked an eyebrow, though he wanted to blink furiously, as his father's teeth were so white.

"Tough crowd," their father muttered as he turned back around and shifted the car into reverse. He pulled away from their house and headed toward the highway that would lead them to where their father lived in Charleston—the biggest city in South Carolina. Every now and then, their father would try to make small talk, but the trip was mostly silent. Tom ended up staring out the window the entire time, and Sierra eventually pulled out a novel.

After what seemed like an eternity, they pulled into another driveway. Tom and Sierra silently got out of the car and followed their father into his house. They cast an awed glance around the main room. It was polished—just like the car—with dark oak furniture and rich drapes covering the large windows facing the front lawn. A large, flat screen television hung on one wall, and crisp sofas and loveseats littered the floor over a lavish carpet. Tom and Sierra shuffled into the room awkwardly, unsure of what to do. Their father closed the door behind them and followed them in.

"Make yourselves at home. I'll show you where your rooms are," he commented, stuffing his hands in his pock­ets casually. Tom and Sierra followed him into another room. There, a large hardwood staircase laced with red vel­vet carpet reached up to the second floor, where they could see white doors lining the open hallway. They wordlessly followed their father up the flight of stairs, and into the closest door.

"This is one of your rooms; the other is right next to it. There are multiple bathrooms up here, in case you don't want to share."

Their father's eye twinkled amusedly, and he chuckled, but neither Tom nor Sierra found it funny.

Their father had up and left their family when they were young. They'd barely been old enough to recall faint mem­ories of him. Tom and Sierra had met him several times after that, but they never accepted the fact that he was their father. Nothing changed the fact that he'd left.

Their father cleared his throat uncomfortably.

"You two are free to go anywhere in the house. I remember how it is to be young. Curious, adventurous... ambitious."

He said the last word as if it brought back some private memory. He stared off into space hungrily for a moment, then reeled himself back in.

"You can explore all you want, except for my private study. It's where I keep all my work and important docu­ments, so I don't want them to get messed up. There's nothing you two would find interesting in there anyway, unless you want to file my paperwork," he said with another chuckle. When he saw Tom and Sierra blinking up at him, unamused, he pulled a hand out of his pocket and checked his expensive-looking watch.