Once I confirmed that I was still satisfied with my selections—excited, even—I held my breath as I did something I’d only done once before.
I checked the bank account where I kept Mom’s money.
She mailed me a check four times per year at the beginning of each financial quarter. They used to go to Dad as child support,but one thing that never changed was how she sent them—inside expensive greeting cards with long, flowery printed messages inside and her full name signed at the bottom—always addressed directly to me instead of Dad.
For a long time, I assumed he used the payments as intended—for buying school supplies, clothes, and the like—but instead, he’d quietly deposited them into an account in my name, which he’d eventually transferred over to me on my eighteenth birthday. The single-line email that accompanied the account information somehow stayed in my memory even years later:
Son, this is yours.
Love,
Dad
He might not have been the parent I needed for the nearly five years I was under his care, but it was clearer than ever that he’d always loved me. He just showed it in more subtle ways than my younger heart secretly craved.
After typing in the password for the account, I froze in shock.
It was not a small amount.
But it still made me feel small. That six-word email from my dad held more regard than this five-figure balance from someone who’d erased all evidence of her child.
Dad proudly displayed photos of me and of the two of us on the wall of his home and in scrapbooks on the living room coffee table. In my mother’s professionally decorated apartment, there were works of art, framed degrees, engraved plaques with award after award, and professional photos of herself receiving those awards.
There wasn’t a single photo of her son. No evidence I existed.
Walking through the apartment of Dr. Alexandra Cormier on Saturday had unearthed a deep and unexpected hurt. One that I wasn’t sure what to do with—bar my immediate reaction, which was doing something fucking reckless like climbing into a burnt house—and this money made it even more complicated.
There was some sway beneath my feet as I closed the laptop and slid out of the booth, but subtle as it was, I still stumbled and had to grip the tabletop for support. Vinh was giving me an amazing deal to stay here on the houseboat, and even though Bree had assured me that he didn’t buy it for me specifically,I had to wonder if it might be better to touch this tainted money for the first time. To swallow my pride and use these funds to find someplace that was entirely my own.
But would it ever truly be mine if I used her money?
A fist pounding on the door jolted me, and I hurried to open the door, thankful for a distraction, and found it in the form of Bree’s boo bear standing on the dock with his arms crossed over his chest.
“I need to get you a security doorbell,” he said by way of greeting.
I crossed my arms to mirror his and leaned against the doorjamb. “I’ll order one.”
We stared at each other for a moment, his dark eyes versus my hazel ones.
“Fine,” he relented, uncrossing his arms and putting his hands in his jean pockets. “But you’ll use it when someone knocks.”
“Okay,” I agreed.
He arched his brow. “Before you open the door.”
“Okay,” I repeated, resting my tongue between my teeth as I imagined tacking on the capitalDword. I’d been dying to say it to his face, but dammit, it wouldn’t be worth it without Cher here to witness it. Instead, I gestured to the security lights andcameras at the top of the wooden dock posts. “I thought you said this place had good security?”
He dipped his chin. “Good is relative, and you’re family.”
I opened my mouth to respond—how, exactly, I wasn’t sure—but the flat “fight me” look he gave me stopped me from finding out. Then, bless him, he continued talking as if he hadn’t just said the nicest damn thing. “Bree and Liem are still getting ready, so I decided to come pick you up for dinner.”
I nodded and, excited, stepped out onto the dock beside him, but with a gentle hand on my shoulder, he pushed me right back onto the boat. “Shoes and shirt, Cody.”
Glancing down at my bare chest and feet, I frowned as mild embarrassment threatened, but Vinh brushed by me and saved me again by interrupting it as he asked, “Do you mind if I check on the detectors and the kitchen sink? I need to see if my patch job is holding up.”
“Sure,” I agreed, leaving him to it as I went back to the bedroom to put on a shirt and kick on my slides, loath to put my feet in jail again after so many hours of food service in slightly damp shoes.
I brushed my teeth, then pulled out my stolen bottle of coconut lotion from my tattered toiletry bag and rubbed it into my hands, elbows, and knees.
