Read The Gatekeeper's Son for Free Online Page B

My bank account was already looking good, and I’d made a hundred and ten grand on a single project. If I inherited Grandpa’s company, I’d have a car like that and his 145-foot motor yacht with the helicopter on the back.
    A wave of guilt swept over me. What was I thinking? I didn’t want a world without him. Besides, I had other plans for my life.
    I was halfway across the boulevard when a chill ran up my spine. I spun in a slow circle, trying to find the source. When I found it, I faltered. That girl was back—same white socks and black braids, sitting on the park bench. She stared at Grandpa’s house, just as she’d done yesterday, and didn’t notice me until I was right in front of her.
    It was Shoko Murakami.
    She jumped. “Oh, it is you,” she said in Japanese. “I am not used to getting sneaked up on.” She still wore her school uniform. It looked neat and clean, but really, hadn’t she brought anything else to wear?
    “Hi again,” I said. “What are you doing here … again?”
    Sometimes I could just kick myself.
    “I am sightseeing.” She held up one of the books she’d checked out yesterday with my card. “It says The Crescent is a must-see.” There was a picture of Grandpa’s house. “That is your house?”
    “No, it’s my grandpa’s house.” It was the first time I’d admitted that to anyone.
    “It is so beautiful. We have no such houses where I come from.” She looked at me with wide eyes. “Do you have time to sit with me?” She patted the bench beside her.
    “Sure … I have lots of time.” I sat next to her—well, not quite. I was nervous and kept a respectable distance between us. I knew I should ask her about yesterday, but my words evaporated when my eyes dropped to her legs. Her bare thighs were tanned and muscular—not the legs of a girl who sat around watching television all day.
    “Do you run track or something?” I asked, my eyes still on them.
    She turned her head fast, which sent her braids spinning. “What is track ?”
    “You know,” I drew a circle on my jeans with my finger. “Run around the track at school or in races.”
    “Why would I run in circles?” She looked at me as if I were an idiot. “I run if I have someplace to go in a hurry.”
    “Right … Never mind.” Then I pointed at the black racket bag slung across her back. “But you play tennis.”
    She hesitated. “Yes.”
    I couldn’t help it—my eyes dropped back to her legs. Her right hand rested there now.
    “That’s a cool ring.”
    “Cool?”
    I couldn’t strike out any worse, so I decided to plunge right in.
    “Were you here yesterday?”
    When she looked at me, her eyes had turned cold. “Why do you ask me that?”
    “I just wondered,” I said, hesitant. “I saw a girl sitting here. She kind of looked like you.” I pointed toward the carriage house. “I was standing over there.”
    She shrugged and turned her head back toward Grandpa’s house. “Is it … amazing inside?”
    “Is what amazing?”
    “Your grandpa’s house.”
    “Oh, uh … yeah. There’s lots of wood trim and stuff,” I said, but I could do better than that. “It’s a Victorian, built in 1910 by a wealthy banker.”
    “Victorian?”
    “As in ‘Queen Victoria.’”
    She stared at me, her face blank. Couldn’t she make anything easy for me?
    “Victorian is a style of architecture named after the Queen of England at that time,” I said, for the first time happy that I’d listened while Grandpa rambled on about this stuff. “The house is a Shingle style, built after the San Francisco earthquake in 1906.”
    “Ah, earthquakes,” she said, nodding. “I know about those.”
    “I would think so .”
    “So your grandfather is rich?”
    “He’s the richest businessman in San Francisco, not counting those Internet guys,” I said. “He owns hotels, banks, department stores, office towers—you name it. He even owns my favorite radio station.”
    “What about railways?”
    I hesitated.