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She sat down and flipped it open. After looking through it her face lit up. “Here it is. The amount comes out of the trust that is in your and your grandmother’s names.”
“Trust?”
“Yes, it was set up by Micheal Dawes, I’m assuming that’s your father.”
Jan handed her paperwork and Kennedy read the banking information. Everything Jan said was true, at least on this paper.
“Can I take this?” Kennedy asked.
“One second.” Jan stood, made a copy, and handed it to her.
Kennedy felt like she was going to throw up as she took the paper and got up to leave.
“What did you want me to do about the billing?”
“Um, I don’t…just credit it.” At least that way, if there was an issue, it wouldn’t be that Kennedy had taken money for something.
She got out to her car and she dialed the number of the credit union.
“Hello, Midwest Credit Union, this is Mary, how can I help you?”
“Hi Mary, I know this might seem a little strange but I was just given information that my name is on a trust fund that is at your bank. Is that possible?”
“What’s your name?”
Kennedy gave her name, address, and the last four digits of her social security number.
“Yes Ms. Dawes, you are named as a co-trustee on the account with Wilma Dawes.”
“Yes, she’s my grandmother.”
“Okay.”
“And does it say who set up the account?”
“That would be Michael Dawes.”
“And how much is in the account?”
“Five hundred, seventy-six thousand, two hundred and ninety-seven dollars and sixty-three cents. Oh, wait, it looks like a pending credit just came through for six thousand, four hundred and seventy-five dollars.”
“Right, okay. Thank you.”
Kennedy hung up the phone. She wasn’t sure what to do. Was that drug money? Had her father killed someone? Was she culpable now that her name was on an account?
She didn’t have those answers, but she knew who did. Her dad wanted to talk, well, they were going to talk now.
29
“You can takea seat and the doctor will be right with you,” the nurse instructed as she stood in the doorway holding her hand out like a spokesmodel.
Seb nodded and walked into the doctor’s office. He lowered into a chair across from a large mahogany desk. His doctors in Los Angeles referred him to the specialist he was seeing today. He’d run the same tests as they’d done there to assess the progress. Seb knew it could take up to a year or more to heal and he was only at the nine-month mark, but he had stopped PT when he went to film in New York and he’d made a decision while he was there to stop altogether. He wasn’t going to go back to tattooing unless he was a hundred percent, and the chances of that happening lessened with each day, each week, each month that passed. The chances of making a full recovery were less than five percent.
Even though his job wasn’t life and death like a surgeon, he took it as seriously. He refused to take a chance of a tick happening or him losing sensation mid-session and him scarring someone forever.
The needle hadn’t moved on his recovery after the swelling from his last surgery had gone down. For six months he’d had the same test results. It was time for him to stop. Tattooing had been his entire life, but there was no way that he’d go back to it and not be one hundred percent. So he was going to retire. Officially.
He’d decided on the drive into the city. The craft that had saved his life, meant more to him than to disrespect it by not creating work up to his standard.
