March replied.
My eyes squeezed shut.
I often dreamed that I was taking an elevator, and it suddenly stalled for a few seconds before falling into a bottomless pit. That feeling of losing ground, that millisecond of dread and weightlessness, my stomach heaving before the fall . . . were precisely what I was experiencing at the moment. I wanted to laugh at the irony of the situation: minutes ago I had been talking to my dad—perhaps for the last time—and he had bullshitted me about tapioca cake. No mention of the fact that he had stripped me of every last bit of my mother’s legacy.
An “oversight,” no doubt.
Who was I kidding? This was exactly the sort of thing he would have done. Simon Halder was a kindhearted and generous man, a loving father, but also a damn controlling and anxious one, and I could guess that he had firmly intended to keep that secret from me until the day he died.
It wasn’t the money that made me angry. I had more than enough to live on my own. I didn’t need any of it. It was the idea that he had robbed me of a part of my mom’s identity, of something that might have helped me know her, understand her. To be honest, I already secretly blamed him for the way he had cleared our apartment in Tokyo and kept none of my mother’s personal belongings after her death. But this was worse. My dad had
known
about my mother’s activities, about her will, and he’d chosen to conceal the truth from me. And, in a way, I had allowed this. I could have told him I was hurt by the way he hadmeticulously wiped away all traces of her, told him that I hated the way he’d sometimes lock himself in his office to take certain phone calls after her death. I hadn’t. I had retreated into a shell of my own and chosen to forget about that open gash between us, for fear of having to confront him.
“If you try to talk to him about Étienne now, he’ll suspect something, and it might endanger him. What is done is done; he’s better not knowing that you learned about your inheritance for the time being,” Ilan commented, apparently reading my mind.
My eyes slanted at March. “Don’t worry, Ilan, it’s not like I have a phone anyway.”
I hoped I wouldn’t get killed, because I planned on having a long conversation with my dad when I got back to New York. I stole another glance at March, who seemed to be plunged in deep thought as well, his brow furrowed. March . . . who embodied every sort of trouble my dad had tried to protect me from by hiding that will from me. What was it that Paolo Coelho said in
The Alchemist
? “What good is money to you if you’re going to die? It’s not often that money can save someone’s life.”
Well, Paolo was damn right, and so was my dad, to some extent. Taking a deep breath, I made up my mind and looked at March. “I’ll help you find the Ghost Cullinan if I can, but I don’t want to know anything about the rest. I won’t take stolen money. I’m in enough trouble as it is.”
“No, it’s money paid in exchange for stolen goods,” Ilan corrected.
“Totally different,” March concurred with a little nod.
Aggravated by the fact that I was being given life advice by guys with failing moral compasses, I slammed back into my seat and crossed my arms. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear this. This conversation is over.”
Ilan was, however, one of those “macho macho men” who decide when conversations are over and when they aren’t. “You know, if money makes you feel bad, you can always be like March. Save it all and live like a Jesuit in a cubicle,” he said with a cunning smile.
A mixture of embarrassment and annoyance flashed in March’s eyes. “My house is big enough, thank you.”
“I think you’re exaggerating, Ilan. A real tightwad wouldn’t fly private,” I offered in defense of my captor.
Ilan guffawed. “He negotiates Paulie’s prices!”
“I’m merely enjoying the benefits of his frequent flyer program,” March replied
My eyes squeezed shut.
I often dreamed that I was taking an elevator, and it suddenly stalled for a few seconds before falling into a bottomless pit. That feeling of losing ground, that millisecond of dread and weightlessness, my stomach heaving before the fall . . . were precisely what I was experiencing at the moment. I wanted to laugh at the irony of the situation: minutes ago I had been talking to my dad—perhaps for the last time—and he had bullshitted me about tapioca cake. No mention of the fact that he had stripped me of every last bit of my mother’s legacy.
An “oversight,” no doubt.
Who was I kidding? This was exactly the sort of thing he would have done. Simon Halder was a kindhearted and generous man, a loving father, but also a damn controlling and anxious one, and I could guess that he had firmly intended to keep that secret from me until the day he died.
It wasn’t the money that made me angry. I had more than enough to live on my own. I didn’t need any of it. It was the idea that he had robbed me of a part of my mom’s identity, of something that might have helped me know her, understand her. To be honest, I already secretly blamed him for the way he had cleared our apartment in Tokyo and kept none of my mother’s personal belongings after her death. But this was worse. My dad had
known
about my mother’s activities, about her will, and he’d chosen to conceal the truth from me. And, in a way, I had allowed this. I could have told him I was hurt by the way he hadmeticulously wiped away all traces of her, told him that I hated the way he’d sometimes lock himself in his office to take certain phone calls after her death. I hadn’t. I had retreated into a shell of my own and chosen to forget about that open gash between us, for fear of having to confront him.
“If you try to talk to him about Étienne now, he’ll suspect something, and it might endanger him. What is done is done; he’s better not knowing that you learned about your inheritance for the time being,” Ilan commented, apparently reading my mind.
My eyes slanted at March. “Don’t worry, Ilan, it’s not like I have a phone anyway.”
I hoped I wouldn’t get killed, because I planned on having a long conversation with my dad when I got back to New York. I stole another glance at March, who seemed to be plunged in deep thought as well, his brow furrowed. March . . . who embodied every sort of trouble my dad had tried to protect me from by hiding that will from me. What was it that Paolo Coelho said in
The Alchemist
? “What good is money to you if you’re going to die? It’s not often that money can save someone’s life.”
Well, Paolo was damn right, and so was my dad, to some extent. Taking a deep breath, I made up my mind and looked at March. “I’ll help you find the Ghost Cullinan if I can, but I don’t want to know anything about the rest. I won’t take stolen money. I’m in enough trouble as it is.”
“No, it’s money paid in exchange for stolen goods,” Ilan corrected.
“Totally different,” March concurred with a little nod.
Aggravated by the fact that I was being given life advice by guys with failing moral compasses, I slammed back into my seat and crossed my arms. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear this. This conversation is over.”
Ilan was, however, one of those “macho macho men” who decide when conversations are over and when they aren’t. “You know, if money makes you feel bad, you can always be like March. Save it all and live like a Jesuit in a cubicle,” he said with a cunning smile.
A mixture of embarrassment and annoyance flashed in March’s eyes. “My house is big enough, thank you.”
“I think you’re exaggerating, Ilan. A real tightwad wouldn’t fly private,” I offered in defense of my captor.
Ilan guffawed. “He negotiates Paulie’s prices!”
“I’m merely enjoying the benefits of his frequent flyer program,” March replied
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