Page 47 of Forbidden Girl

“It was. This is the insurance policy, in the event of the worst-case scenario. I was putting you on this account as a secondary user and needed a government ID to corroborate your birth certificate.”

I feel like I swallowed a boulder. “Tell me you haven’t been skimming from Dad all this time. He’ll kill you if he finds out.”

He could never forgive betrayal of that nature, irrespective of who the betrayer might be. He’s too prideful and power hungry—examples must be made.

“Skimming,” she scoffs. “He’s so out of touch with reality, he’s been handing me five thousand dollars a week for twenty-five years to run the house. I didn’t need that much money. But he never asked for receipts, and I never offered any. After our bills were paid and the kitchen was stocked, whatever was left over went into this account.”

“You’re brilliant. And terrifying.”

“I told you, you didn’t get your brains from your father. Didn’t I? I knew in the back of my mind this day or one like it would come. You don’t need to worry about how to pay for school, or anything else for that matter.”

I know what she means. “That isn’t going to work out. The logistics of it… they don’t exist for me. I know that I want my degree. I know that I want a career. Everything I’ve done up to this point, even my internship at Equity Financial, was done under my name. I can’t give up Juliet Calloway, as much as I want to. And I really want to.”

“So, we won’t be arranging an elopement and faking your death, then?”

I give her an eyeroll. “This isn’t Romeo and Juliet, Mother.”

“I was kidding, sweetie.” She pats my shoulder in the most sardonic way possible. “Give me your phone; I’ll set up the app for you, so you can access the funds whenever you need to.”

“Uh, that’s going to be a problem. Dad confiscated it.”

She sighs. “Of course he did.” She flips through her phone wallet case, to a discreet compartment tucked behind the main cardholder slots, and pulls out a debit card. “Take this.”

I examine it, turn it over in my hands. It’s the strangest card, a black metal slate with no name or numbers stamped into it, one of those ‘Tap to Pay’ RFID icons in the bottom left corner, and a silver magnetic strip on the back. It makes sense that it would be unremarkable, given the large sum in the account, yet its inconspicuousness only serves to draw attention to its user. That’s such a prototypical Rich Person Thing—ostentatious but sneaky, “I’m a VIP, be aware of my presence but don’t make a scene.” It hadn’t occurred to me how crude that is until now. I’ve perpetuated it myself. Bougie is one thing, showy is another. I don’t want to be that flashy girl anymore. A modest life is enough.

“Thank you. But this doesn’t solve everything.”

“How about we take away his money and influence? Let’s burn down his stash house so he has to start from scratch.”

“You got jokes today, huh, Mom?” I know my dad has a warehouse somewhere jam-packed with illegal goodies; however, I wouldn’t know how to find it to burn it down. He guards its location with his life. He’s smarter than Callum Monaghan in that way: Everyone knows where to find him, but few people dare to fuck with him.

“I’m only half joking about that.”

“Do you actually know where the place is?”

She nods. “I do. My name was on the deed until I transferred ownership to him.”

All these secrets I wasn’t privy to. What else don’t I know about my mom? “You transferred it to him? Why? Oh… Because you didn’t want to be implicated in his crimes.”

“Bingo.” She reaches out to smooth my damp locks. “Once you came into the world, I couldn’t afford to be involved with his business anymore. It was too dangerous. If anything should happen to him, I needed to be here for you. We both agreed on that.”

“I could never do anything like that to him. I hate that he deals in drugs and guns, but to be the one who robs him of his life’s work feels wrong.”

“Because you’re loyal. And you love him.”

Yes, and yes. “You, too.”

“Indeed.”

Knowing the whereabouts of his stash house could prove useful to Rowan, though. Whatever she’s plotting, it’s more nefariously ingenious than any plan I could hatch. Best to leave the masterminding up to her and take a supporting role. “Where is it?”

“On Constellation Wharf in Charlestown.”

Charlestown. That’s unexpected. When I think Charlestown, I think Bunker Hill Monument, retired naval warships converted to museums, a town rich with American history, not piles of cocaine and crates of handguns squirreled away in an Irish gangster’s hidey-hole. It’s a good location, right where the Mystic and Charles Rivers meet, easy to get to from the water. I’m filled with a perverse curiosity. I want to see it and all the merchandise it stores, gauge its size. Maybe then the true scope of my father’s influence on this city will become clearer. I’m hoping he’s more small-time than I’ve assumed.

“What’s the address?” I ask.

“Sixty-five. The last building on the pier, closest to the water.”

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