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“Emmy?” I ask.
“Yeah?”
“Do you know anything about this?” Offering over my phone, I wait as she reads the report on the screen, her hands shaking.
“No, he wouldn’t have… How could he? No.” She shakes her head, tears forming in her eyes.
Kneeling down in front of her, I grab hold of her hands. They tremble under my touch.
“Emmy, it’s okay. I can fix this. Whatever this is. I can fix it for you. You just have to tell me what you know.”
“I… I don’t know. I didn’t know about this. I don’t understand. I’m right here. Obviously, I’m not dead.”
“Thank fuck for that.” I swipe the lone tear that escapes down her cheek with my thumb. “Do you need money? Is that why you came here?” I prompt, feeling like a complete jerk for even asking her that.
“What? No. I don’t need your money. I told you I can leave. I’ll never bother you again. I don’t need you to give me anything.” She starts to stand up.
“I know. I just… You won’t tell me a damn thing, Emmy, and I find out you were pronounced dead just a day after withdrawing five million dollars from your trust account? I don’t know what to think here, Em.”
“I don’t know what this is,” she says, waving my phone around. “But I didn’t have a trust account. I was the scholarship kid, remember? Not a trust fund brat,” she spits out at me.
“I set up a trust for you. You were able to access it the day you turned twenty-two. It appears you withdrew the whole amount in one go, then transferred it to an offshore account.”
Emmy shakes her head. “No, I didn’t. And why the hell would you set up a trust for me? Five million dollars? Really, Josh? What the hell would one person need that much money for?”
“I wanted to make sure you were taken care of. That you wouldn’t ever need to worry about money again,” I tell her.
She laughs, full-belly laughs. “That’s funny. Because for the past three years, I haven’t.” Her mouth snaps shut.
“You haven’t what?” I pry.
“Been alive apparently,” she answers before mumbling under her breath, “Ironically… it’s not far from the truth.”
This conversation is not going to get either of us anywhere. She doesn’t know about the trust or the death certificate—that I’m sure of.
“Get dressed, you can find some sweats in the closet. We’re going to the city,” I say as I walk out the door.
* * *
I’ve been waitingat the bottom of the stairs for thirty minutes. What the fuck could be taking her so long? I’ve had time to sort through some files, and pack my laptop and other essentials into a bag. All she had to do was throw on some sweatpants.
I’m about ready to go up and drag her out, when I hear her footsteps. Turning around, I see her coming down the steps. No. Fuck no!
She’s put on a blue flannel shirt, and somehow tied a black belt around the middle of it. It looks like a dress. A short fucking dress that is showing off her every fucking curve. She’s put her Converse back on her feet. Her hair, now dry, hangs in loose curls over one of her shoulders.
“That doesn’t look like sweats,” I grunt out.
Emily looks down at herself, running her hands over her body and smoothing out the flannel material.
“Mhm, I suppose it doesn’t, considering, you know, it’s not sweats.” She shrugs.
It’s a three-hour trip into the city. Deciding I don’t really have time to win the argument about her putting more clothes on, I let it go. Or, more accurately, on the outside, I let it go. On the inside, I’m fucking seething at the thought of other people seeing that much of her skin.
“Emmy, whatever you do, don’t let go of my hand,” I tell her as I take hold of her open palm.
She looks up at me, confused, her eyebrows drawn down. “Why?”
“Because when you’re touching me, I feel less murdery. Also, it’s a little harder to slice someone’s throat with just one hand, though not impossible. It just takes longer,” I answer as I lead her outside to the waiting Range Rover.
