Page 46 of No Headlines Please

It felt transactional, and I didn't like it. "You don't owe me anything. You do know that, right?"

"But that's not exactly true," she protested. "Right from the beginning, I should've at least paid for your shirt." She searched my face before asking, "Are you sure you want to hear this? I mean…I'm pretty sure I'll come across as a whiner."

"And I'm sure you won't."

"But…how can you be sure?"

I knew, because I'd seen her trudging along the sidewalk, dragging a busted suitcase. She hadn't even mentioned it.

For some reason, it made me think of Sloane. One time, she had nearly lost it because a bellhop had misplaced her luggage for twelve short minutes.

Yes. Twelve. I knew the exact number, because Sloane had been counting the minutes down – loudly – while complaining how hard it was to find good help.

To Delaney, I said, "And let's say you do whine. Maybe you've got a good reason."

"Maybe." She wrapped both hands tighter around her cup. "But don't say I didn't warn you."

I nodded. "Consider me warned."

"Okay…the reason I don't have any money – I'm assuming that's your biggest question – is because my mom sort of borrowed it."

What the hell?

I recalled what Cal had relayed about the mom. She'd already burned through her own fortune without saving any for her kids. And now, she was bleeding her daughter?

Carefully, I asked, "What do you mean borrowed?"

"The thing is…back when I was a kid, she started this bank account for me. You know how that works, right?"

I nodded.

Delaney hesitated. "And to be fair, for the first few years, most of the deposits came from her. Well…her and Dad, I mean."

I considered what I knew of the father. Unlike the mom, he hadn't come from money. But he'd done alright. These days, he made a respectable income teaching English Lit at a small, private university.

Delaney was still talking. "And like a total idiot, I didn't change accounts when I grew up. I didn't even think about it. I mean, it's not like she ever used it." Delaney's voice trailed off as she added, "Well…until now."

Something twisted in my gut. "So, what happened?"

"Okay…first, I should probably explain that I'm a writer." She hesitated. "Fiction."

I was intrigued. "What kind of fiction?"

Her cheeks flushed as she waved away the question. "Eh, it's not important."

I didn't agree. "It's not?"

"Not really," she said as if eager to move along. "And I write under a pen name. But I self-publish, and I do my own advertising. So basically, I publish a book and then advertise the heck out of it when I'm done."

I wanted to know more. "Advertise where?"

"It's not like I have billboards or anything. Mostly it's online. You know…like social media. But the point is, I have to pay for the advertising in advance, which is totally fine, because the royalties eventually pay for it."

It sounded like a hedge. "Eventually?"

"Usually. Unless the book is a flop. But either way, the royalties don't come in until a few months later."

I got what she meant. "So it's an issue of cashflow."