Page 114 of Rebooting Conor Flynn

“Good luck with that.” He returned to his bicep curls but switched to humming.

I shut the door in case he decided to start up again. I had to concentrate.

Because I quit 92 West instead of waiting for my pink slip, I did not qualify for unemployment benefits. Dina would probably be happy to change my status to terminated, but I wasn’t going to beg.

I didn’t need to beg. My parents had a lot of money, not that I’d go crawling to dad after my career, the career he denigrated, just blew up in face, but I didn’t need to do that, either.

My mother had an inheritance from her parents, and she’d bundled that up in trust funds for me and my sister before she passed. Vivienne had already dug into hers to buy a house in Boston, on Dad’s advice, but I hadn’t touched mine. I’d never been unemployed before. I didn’t need a house; I just needed to survive until I figured out what I wanted to do.

At least my announcement hadn’t doomed the tour. Ticket sales remained brisk for the remainder of the dates, and as far as I could tell, Ashley was able to limp along with her failing vocals with a combination of tricks and distractions. The critics noticed, but the fans didn’t care.

But the tour wasn’t my business anymore.

I dragged a chair into my walk-in closet, balanced on it, and reached for a battered accordion file, crammed behind some shoe boxes, on the top shelf.

Crushing it against my chest, I hopped off the chair as Jane curled her body around my suitcase. “Don’t worry I’m not leaving you with Matt again.”

She streaked past me on her way out of the closet and I called after her, “Oh, I see how it is. You want bacon and...catnip. That’s not catnip, missy!”

I set the file on my kitchen table and sneezed at the dust that rose from it and swirled in the sunbeams from the window. I wiped it down with a dish towel and flipped it open.

I grabbed the first stack of papers and thumbed through some statements—mostly bonds and money market funds. I’d be leaving those. I knew there were some certificates of deposit I could raid for a month or two without incurring any penalties.

The next stack got a little more complicated with stocks and commodities. I’d need an accountant to go through those with me but not yet.

When I got to the CDs, I plucked a yellow Post-it from the first stack. My nose tingled as I recognized my mother’s handwriting. I read the note aloud to myself and Jane. "This is your independence, Elle. I want you to always have the freedom to choose your own path, even if that’s not medicine."

I sniffed and blinked away the tears. Even though Mom was the doctor in the family, she didn’t expect me or Viv to choose that road—unlike Dad. Dad got even more invested in that path for us after Mom passed away.

Despite Dad’s controlling ways, only one twin complied. I hated to be the disappointment of the family and once Dad found out I quit my job with 92 West, he’d be ready with an, I told you so. And various suggestions about what I should pursue next. He couldn’t help himself.

I plucked out two CDs, the oldest ones, and put them aside. Those should be able to float me for about six months while I looked for work.

As I stuffed the papers back into the file, I decided to have a look at some of the other investments. These included those that Dad did on our behalf—business interests, private equity, hedge funds. I’d really need an accountant to sort through these when the time came.

I perused the papers and folders fanned out in front of me, and Jane jumped onto the table from the windowsill, scattering a few onto the floor.

“Learning all kinds of anti-social behaviors from Matt.” I leaned over to scoop up the mess, and two words caught my attention: Baker Street.

What the hell?

I flattened several sheets of paper on the table with my hands, leaving the Baker Street one on top.

The form detailed a private equity investment. In Baker Street? My Baker Street?

Maybe Dad had more faith in my career than I thought he did. The idea lightened my heart. He never told me. He must’ve believed in me more than I realized. He knew what it meant to me.

Then I saw the amount. One million dollars?

Why would Dad invest a mil in Baker Street? My light heart dropped like a stone. Did he get me the job? No. I interviewed for that position after finding out about it from my friend’s mom. I showed them my portfolio, which basically consisted of flyers for indie bands.

I snorted. Dad wouldn’t tell me if he did interfere. Knowing my personality, he’d understand that I would’ve rejected any hint of nepotism for my first job.

Hard to believe he’d find me a position that would lead me to drop out of uni. So, Dad pulled strings to get me the job of my dreams. I suppose I should be grateful, but it left a sour taste in my mouth.

I sifted through a few more of the Baker Street investment documents with a furrowed brow, murmuring the phrases that jumped out at me but made no sense. “Preferred voting shares. Investment contingencies. Conditions attached.”

Investment contingencies? Conditions? Dad never attached any conditions to investments he made with Mom’s money on our behalf.