The personal guards that usually surrounded Mr. Conwell had been left behind the yellow “Do Not Cross” tape line (by order of Mr. Conwell himself) and the three of us continued beyond it down the large hallway. He walked ahead of us, leading the way, while Dad and I trailed behind him quietly as he pointed out the structural art of his home. Personally, I was excited to see something Mr. Conwell had developed himself, although it didn't seem like my father shared the same enthusiasm. He walked with a furrowed brow and narrowed as, as if he were drilling small holes into the back of Mr. Conwell's head with his pupils (he would give me the same look if I were being scolded). Whenever the man looked back at us to speak, my father's expression would immediately change to that of complete interest in Mr. Conwell's words. My Dad would smile and nod as if he were actually into what ever the man was saying (but my father was great at hiding things). Finally, I managed to nudge my Dad when Mr. Conwell's back was turned and look up at him.
"Is there something wrong . . . ?" I asked him in a soft whisper, "you seem a little . . . on edge."
He didn't say anything for a moment and I figured that he wouldn't say anything at all. He was always one to keep things to himself. I had gotten used to it over the years, it was just another part of him that made him my father. But if he did have something to say to you he wouldn't beat around the bush. He'd be perfectly frank about it. Most of the time I didn't mind, it was much more effective than explaining small details that didn't even matter. There were times though where I wished he had eased me into the point rather than just putting it out there.
"That's not Mr. Conwell," he told me quickly and quietly, "he's a fake."
If any other person would had said that to me I would've never believed them. I would have told them they were wrong and were just paranoid (that or just plain crazy). But this wasn't any other person . . . this was one of the people I looked up to in my life. I had no choice but to trust him.
"Are you sure?"
"Are you really asking me that?"
Touche.
"What are you two whispering about back there?" Mr. Fake asked us with a grin, "you aren't talking about my horrendous bald spot on the back of my head are you?"
Honestly, I didn't see the difference between this Mr. Conwell and the previous one we had met. They both looked the same, acted the same, and even talked the same. I tried noticing the smaller details about him, but I couldn't grasp the differences still. I guess that showed how much more I needed to learn.