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“No way,” Bridge said, her eyes widened as she caught on.
“I know exactly where he put the titles in his office.”
“He’ll know you’ve been in there.”
“So what? We’ll be long gone before then.”
“So we sell the cars and live off that money.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Well, that and I’ve got some money saved up.”
“How much?” she asked, crashing back down on the bed, her legs still hanging off the end.
Seven million two hundred ninety-three thousand eight hundred fifty-nine dollars and seventeen cents. I hesitated. If I was honest with her, she’d have to know everything. “Enough,” I evaded again.
“How much is enough, Spence?” she insisted.
“Enough to get us to Montana and to feed ourselves, pay for baby shit, all that. We wouldn’t have to worry.”
“Okay,” she said, satisfied enough with that dodgy response. “When will you hear from August?”
“Tonight most likely.” Bridge got really quiet. “What’s up?”
“Will we ever see Mom again?”
“I’m sure of it.”
“When?”
“As soon as we can, Bridge. We can call her as soon as you turn eighteen, if you want.”
This seemed to ease her mind a bit.
“What do we do now?” she asked.
“We wait.”
Chapter Nine
Christmas morning went by in a blur. My dad wasn’t there, and my mom was picking up on our strange vibes. She didn’t dwell on them too much. I think she figured it was residual emotion from Bridget’s ordeal and didn’t ask too many questions. That, or she didn’t want to face what she thought our dad made Bridge do. Yeah, I was disappointed, but either way it worked out in our favor.
The night before, August called and filled me in on the plan. His grandparents lived in Bitterroot, Montana, and would be expecting us within the week, if we could get away. They had a trailer prepared for us and knew our predicament. They were willing to host us for however long we needed. I felt grateful.
I’d searched the distance between Los Angeles and Bitterroot and come up with a freaking nineteen-hour drive. It was going to be a bitch to drive a nauseous Bridge for that long, not to mention that once we arrived there wasn’t going to be much for us to do. I shit you not, Bitterroot consisted of a fire station, post office, school, and a single Exxon. I am not screwing with you. Bridge better believe how much I love her since I’m doing this crap for her.
My mom and dad would be leaving the day after Christmas for some party my dad’s lawyer’s firm was having in New York City. It was also supposed to be riddled with some sort of business deal that I had no interest in hearing about, but I did know they were leaving early the twenty-sixth, three-in-the-morning kind of early, and on his private jet to make it in time to check into their room and attend whatever bullshit meeting my dad had scheduled. They would attend the party that night and return the twenty-seventh around five in the evening our mom told us. We had thirty-nine hours.
Thirty-nine hours.
I stayed up until two in the morning waiting for them to leave, and then I went into survival mode. I’d already packed two bags and hidden them under my bed, and Bridge had done the same. Since we’d graduated junior high, my mom stopped employing live-in help to reduce the temptation my dad had with “messing” with our nannies and occasional maids. (Like I said before, douche.) So, Bridge left a note on their entrance door letting them know they could have the next two days off and wished them a Merry Christmas, which allowed us thirty-nine clear hours to erase our existences as we knew them...at least until Bridge’s baby was born.
“Bridge,” I said quietly at her door around four in the morning.
“Yeah,” her sleepy voice rang out.
“You ready?”
“As ready as I’m ever going to be.”
