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No. No, no, no. I rush to Herc’s side, snatch the phone, and look at the screen. His banking app is open, and I confirm everything he just said.
Checking? Frozen.
Savings? Frozen.
Trust? Yep. Frozen.
“Mother fudge-makers,” I hiss, wishing I could be loud.
I study Herc’s eyes, and my brother has no idea what to do for the first time in forever. His look is vacant, like he’s chosen an out-of-body experience rather than face whatever it is we have to face right now.
“We’re going to lose our scholarships—all of them. And we can’t pay,” he says, his voice distant.
“Darn it, darn it, darn it!” I start to pace again. “Dad, what did you do? What did you do?”
“Officially, we have no idea,” Herc says, scrubbing a hand over his face.
“What is that supposed to mean?” I ask.
Herc just levels me with a blank stare, then sucks his lips into his mouth, shaking his head from side to side.
I have to pace. It’s what I do.
What would Dad say to do?
I snort out loud, then mimic the baritone of his voice. “If Daddy had wise words for us, it would probably be ‘Stick to tennis, that’s your meal ticket.’ Thanks a lot, big guy.”
And that’s when I freeze. Tennis will take care of us. Tennis is your meal ticket.
But no, that doesn’t mean anything…does it?
The trunk…they argued about the trunk…
I gasp so loudly that I nearly swallow my tongue. “Herc!”
He shushes me again. “What, Cassandra? Will you zip your lip and let me think of a plan? We might be able to get in touch with Uncle Harry. I know Daddy lent him money for the down payment on his house, and I know he’s made a million since then. He might still owe him….”
I’m barely hearing my brother list off all the people who may or may not owe money to our father—it’s a long list—as I’m now chanting and eating up the distance to the tennis shed.
“The trunk!” I want to scream now that I think—maybe—that I’ve cracked the code.
Ignoring Herc’s muttering that I’ve lost it, I throw open the sliding door of the equipment shed and push aside the rolling racks of basketballs and soccer balls, and there it is.
I can see why my mother never wanted it in the house, splintered, weathered, and enormous. The leather straps are cracked, and the buckles are rusted.
But maybe Mom never wanted that trunk in the house for a different reason.
Maybe…
On my knees, I work one buckle loose. While I’m struggling with the second buckle, a voice behind me makes me jump. “Whatcha doin’, Squeaks?”
I yelp and turn around, then blow out a breath of relief.
Hazel eyes, bright with curiosity and mischief, look down at me. A long-fingered hand scrubs through a head of dark, tousled hair, and a familiar set of enviably thick eyebrows are raised, creasing a beautifully tanned forehead. Titus Butler has arrived.
“Titus!” I could cry. But not now.
“Who else would it be?” He chuckles good-naturedly like he had nothing better to do with his day than help me open a trunk.
