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“We need aMontgomery’shelp,” I specify, adding after Finn.
That intrigues the blistering wound that is her mind, as the door widens back open an inch farther.
“Has your father ever shown you how they manage accounts at the bank?”
“Has he shown you anything other than how to max out a credit card?” Finn taunts right after.
I shoot him a glare.Not. Helping.
He backpedals, tone less degrading. Almost somewhat normal. “We mean do you know how to get into them? He’s had to have shown you something.”
She points with her chin. “And if I do?”
“We need you to get us into them,” I push, sounding too invested, but it’s because I am. We’re getting somewhere and I don’t want to lose the momentum.
Her mouth screws to one side and I’m sure we have her until, “you know that’s illegal, right?”
“Not if it’s in our families’ names. We should have access.” Correct?
Of course, it’s correct.
My hands start to shake at my sides, but I fist them before anyone can see. The darkness outside helps but the trembling is out of my own frustrations. The longer she stays saying nothing, the more erratic the movement becomes.
For a moment, Madison’s expression almost turns thoughtful, and I think she’s going to help us. Or at the very least give us some sort of information that could be useful, but I’m wrong.
Dead wrong.
The gust of air hits us with the same force that I’m sure Madison is proud of herself for accomplishing in her unnecessary theatrics. It is the direct result of the aftermath of the door being slammed right in our faces.
This time it’s for good. The soft sound of a click following shortly after, telling.
“Well,” Finn says, sounding doubtful. “Do we have a planB?”
Shit.
thirty-three
Rory
“Whyareyouwalkingso fast?”
This is the fastest I’ve seen Finn pick up his feet in a while. The only other time he moves this way is up and down a basketball court.
It’s like he’s gotten a second wind, the motion bazaar, and coming out of thin air. I can barely manage to keep up with his long strides through Hardin.
“You know, I’m really getting tired of chasing people down,” I grumble on his heels.
“So don’t. Go to the mail room,” he says, not missing a beat and it causes my muscles to clench.
The entire day he’s been acting finicky, but it’s only gotten worse on the drive over. It puts me that much more on edge. Especially because he won’t tell me what this is about. Cranking up the music louder anytime I mentioned anything he didn’t want to talk about.
Typical.
“What’s making you sprint like you have ants crawling up your ass?” I quiz, wheezing. I’m the one who’s actually on the verge which is saying a lot because I run a ton.
“You were right.”
Of course, I was but… “What are you talking about?”
