Free Hancock Park by Isabel Kaplan

mean.”
    â€œMiller?” He asked. I nodded. “You must be…Rebecca,” he said, scanning a list of names.
    â€œYeah. Becky.”
    â€œNice to meet you. My name is George, and if there’s anything I can assist you with, please let me know.”
    â€œCould you tell me where the elevators are?” I repeated.
    He nodded. “Yes, but I’ll need to take you because you don’t have your passkey yet. Here, follow me.”
    I had never been inside an elevator that I couldn’t work on my own. This was a hotel, not a home. George nodded toward a colleague at the concierge desk. As if on cue, an elevator opened. Freaky? Apparently not. “The elevators open with permission from the concierge,” explained George, “and therefore, nobody who shouldn’t be in the building makes it past the lobby.”
    I nodded because I didn’t know what else to do.
    â€œBut then, once you get in the elevator, you have to swipe your key in order to make the car go up.” I felt so out of place, but I was trying not to look it.
    â€œYour key will permit you to go to your floor, nine; the roof, which is where the infinity pool and barbeques are located; the lobby; and floor four, the workout and spa center. If you wish to access a different floor to visit someone, you will need to come to the concierge in order to receive permission.”
    I must have been giving him some sort of a blank stare because he added, “We have high-profile residents here atBeach Tower—such as your mother, for example—and we find that our residents like to maintain their privacy.”
    â€œOf course. That makes sense.” I tried to smile convincingly.
    The elevator stopped. “Alright, here we are.” The gold doors opened, and a cream-colored hallway appeared before us. A miniature version of the mirror-and-orchid display was arranged in the middle of the hall. “Now, just to the left, and we have Apartment 903. Welcome.” George escorted me down the hall and pushed open a heavy, white, wooden door, revealing my new home.
    The first thing I noticed was that everything was white. The second thing I noticed was that blocking my view to the ocean, which I knew was right in front of me, was Pam Michaels, Joey’s mother and a longtime friend of my mom’s. She stood, one hand on her hip and the other in the air, pointing. Today she wore skinny jeans, loafers, and a boxy bright red blazer. Her lipstick matched her jacket, in bold contrast to her carefully fake-baked skin. “Put that down there. No, a little to the left. Yes, yes, that’s it. Good. Perfect.” Pam was an interior designer. She held her arm out, directing movers who were holding up a big white couch and moving it inches to the left, then to the right until it reached its perfect position. When Pam was satisfied, she clapped her hands together and turned around to face me. “Becky! Great to see you. Now, what do you think of this amazing new furniture? Amazing, right?”
    In front of me were boxes and brand-new tables, vases,and lamps. In just two weeks, my mother had furnished an entire apartment.
    Pam walked me through a pile of furniture, asking if this desk would do, and how about those sheets? And what do we think of our new bed? Great, glad you like it. Now, moving on.
    I saw Jack sitting on the floor of a bedroom—his bedroom, I guessed—listening to his iPod and looking at the wall. “Hey,” I said, standing at the door to the room.
    â€œThis sucks,” Jack said.
    â€œYeah.” I nodded in agreement.
    â€œMom’s in her room. It’s at the end of the hall.”
    â€œThanks.” I dropped my backpack on the floor of the hallway and walked toward my mother’s new bedroom. Mom was on her knees, digging through brown cardboard moving boxes, her hair tied up in a ponytail and the sleeves of her button-down shirt rolled up.
    â€œBecky. Hi,