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“Fingers crossed.” Even if I do get my job back, which I know is a long shot, I just want to know what happened to the money and how my name ended up being the one attached to the fact that it went missing in the first place.
“I promise we’ll get to the bottom of it.”
I know she’s running out of positive things to say, and frankly, hearing them makes me want to slam my head into a wall. “Thanks, Teag. I need to process, but we’ll talk soon, okay?”
“I’ll call you tomorrow?”
“Sure. Tomorrow works.” I end the call and blow out a breath.
What started as a great day has swiftly done a swirly down the toilet. Up until a few minutes ago, I had a fantastic job working at a prestigious company as an architectural engineer. I worked my ass off to get that job, and I had to deal with my dad’s moderate disapproval over the fact that I was his only child who decided not to come work with him, my brother, and my sister at Smith Financial, where my father is the CFO.
Teagan gets it. Losing our mom when we were young was hard on her, and she feels an extraordinary responsibility to be there for our dad and Bradley. And he, in turn, has showered her with gifts and a pampered lifestyle she’s become used to, even if she doesn’t necessarily want it. It’s a tough place for her to be in. She doesn’t want to say no, or make him feel like his gifts are unappreciated, but she’s become the child my dad puts the most energy into. Probably because she is the spitting image of our mother. It’s sort of a toxic relationship, one that’s cost my dad thousands in therapy, and still she’s under his thumb.
I’m not knocking him. He’s a good guy, and he basically raised us on his own after our mother passed away. Well, actually, it was nannies who raised us, since he buried himself in work to avoid being a single father. But he did the best he could, I guess.
My dad blamed himself and became a workaholic, Teagan developed abandonment issues, and the youngest of us, Bradley, who was only four when it happened, lived a carefree life playing video games all the way through until the end of high school, and he put in just enough effort to get the grades he needed for college. Despite Mom’s death messing us all up, we came out the other side okay. I think.
Until now.
What was supposed to be a one-week vacation is now a permanent job hiatus. And with these accusations flying, it seems like finding a new job is going to present a real challenge.
I survey the cottage, drinking in the sight of mismatched furniture and Grammy Bee’s love of eclectic trinkets. At least I can stay here while I’m avoiding the media scrutiny in Chicago.
I grab my duffel and bring it to the spare bedroom I slept in when I spent time here in the summer as a teenager. I need to get my head around what I’m facing. And a shower. And probably a bottle of bourbon. I make my way to the bathroom and hope like hell the hot water is still working.
A text from Bradley comes through right before I get in the shower: I hear you just got three million richer. Share the wealth bro.
Of course my brother is making a joke about this. It’s just like him to not take anything seriously. Twenty minutes later I’m still standing under the pounding spray of water. It’s a great distraction from the shitstorm that has suddenly become my life. Fast and hard, the water pelts my back like a freaking jet stream. A few years back, when I was working on a project in college, I tested out some new plumbing options. Grammy Bee’s water pressure was terrible, as sometimes happens when the pump bringing the water up from the lake isn’t strong enough. Seems like maybe I overcompensated. I add it to my to-do list, which, based on what I’ve seen so far, is going to take the entire summer to get through. On the upside, it looks like I’ll have nothing but time to take care of all the home improvements.
I’m in the middle of rinsing off when I swear I hear someone’s voice. A female someone.
I step out from under the spray and listen. And there it is again. Faint, but there—a voice that belongs to a woman. It would be like Grammy Bee to start haunting my ass while I’m in the middle of a shower, on what’s turning out to be one of the worst days of my life. Considering how morose I am, I should think about dying my hair black and putting on some of Grammy Bee’s old Cure albums.
