Page 30 of The Haunted Hotel
“You didn’t?” I reply in confusion. “Why did you come here, then?”
He stares at me, the furrow between his brows deepening and the grip of his hands tightening on his knees.
“Sorry.” I grimace. “That was rude. It’s not my business. Forgive me for asking.” I turn to leave, realising he probably wants some space and privacy, but pause when I hear his voice.
“Honestly, I don’t know what the hell I’m doing here.” He admits slowly. I turn back to face him, he glances up from his perch on the edge of the bed, looking so miserably frustratedthat I’m again hit with the urge to soothe away that frown and make him smile. “Stupid, huh?”
“I don’t think so.” I incline my head toward the edge of the bed beside him. He nods, so I take a tentative seat beside him, careful not to crowd his space.
“I was in Chicago dealing with a problem at one of our larger hotels and the next thing I knew, my name was plastered all over the papers. Some asshole reporter had put my name together with this place, just after that guy was killed here. They love dragging my name through the dirt whenever they can. A few papers ran with it and then it got blasted all over social media. They dug up what happened to my dad—my biological dad—then they started dragging up all the previous deaths linked to this place.”
“Oh,” I murmur. I’m not sure what to say, but I feel bad that he’s been drawn into the mess we inadvertently caused.
“Yeah.” He sighs. “I shouldn’t have reacted. I know better. It would have all blown over in a matter of days, but I guess it was the proverbial straw. I was pissed and so sick of having it all thrown in my face. I was halfway across the Atlantic before I calmed down enough to realise this probably wasn’t a good idea.”
I wince. “Sorry. Thisiskind of my fault, then. The murder mystery weekend was my idea.”
“Oh, really? Did you murder the guy?”
“No. Turns out no one did. He fell on his own sword, so to speak.”
“Then it wasn’t your fault.” He sighs again, and he sounds so… weary. “It’s all just one big clusterfuck.”
“Mr Ashton-Drake,” I begin, but he cuts me off.
“Morgan,” he corrects. “You may as well call me Morgan. You say Mr Ashton-Drake and I think you mean the crazy old guy with no pants that’s supposed to be my grandfather.”
“Morgan,” I say gently. “I don’t think coming here was a mistake, whatever the reason you got on that plane. Your grandfather does want to see you. Believe me. Otherwise he’d have refused flat out in the first place. He’s just prickly and, like I said, he doesn’t react well to change. Just give him time. You’re going to be here for a few days or at least until the snow clears enough for travel. Why don’t you try to get to know him? I know he seems… eccentric. And, well, I guess he is, but underneath it all, he’s a very sweet and kind man. He just tends to be a bit grumpy.”
Something that seems to run in the family, I think in amusement as I watch Morgan.
He huffs. “You sound like you know him well.”
I shrug. “I practically grew up here. It’s all I know. Mr Ashton-Drake was always really nice to me, and I guess I kind of thought of him as my de facto grandparent since I don’t have any of my own.”
“You don’t?” He studies me, his dark eyes narrowing curiously. “No family at all, other than your mom?”
“I do have family.” I smile. “They’re all here at the hotel.”
“What? The staff?”
“Yes, the staff. They’re a quirky bunch, but fun and loyal.” He seems surprised by this, but I nod. “Why don’t you come and have something to eat?” I offer. I want to get him out of this room where, judging by his current mood, I’m sure he’d quite happily sit and brood all evening.
“I’m not hungry,” he rumbles like a sullen teenager.
“Okay.” It is, after all, his choice. I rise to my feet and head towards the door. “If you change your mind, just head down to the dining room.”
He doesn’t say another word but watches contemplatively as I leave the room.
Clicking the door closed behind me, I head down the corridor.
I wish I knew why he hadn’t come to see his grandfather before now, but I can’t ask. It would be too rude and intrusive. I’m also not about to go snooping for information. If what Morgan said was true, an internet search would probably bring up half of what I want to know about him, but how much would actually be true? It also seems like a horrendous invasion of his privacy.
The thing is, I wasn’t lying when I said earlier that Mr Ashton-Drake had wanted to see him. He did, but the moment he was actually confronted with Morgan, his anxiety had got the better of him, which is why he was so rude and grumpy. It’s a self-defence mechanism and also the reason why I still call him Mr Ashton-Drake instead of Cedric, even after all these years and how well I know him. It makes him more comfortable to have that slight degree of separation, a protective layer.
I don’t know the exact circumstances that triggered Mr Ashton-Drake’s anxieties, but I’m pretty sure it had something to do with Morgan’s father’s death. It was before my time, way before I was born even, but Aggie and Dilys worked here back then. They know some of it, if not all—after all, you can’t usually hide much from the staff in a place like this. But I’ve never asked and they’ve never told. I’ve always thought some things are best left buried.
Now, I’m not so sure.