Page 68 of Synced to Us

Dee has made me grasp how passive I’ve been. Avoiding consequences because—what? My past dictates not to talk to big, bad money men? Dee’s the opposite of terrible. Her morals are sound, and she deals with hundreds, millions, maybe billions of dollars every day, and she’s trusted with it.

Maybe…

Nah. I shake my head and rub my eyes. The aversion to money managers remains a gorilla on my back, but I have to throw it off. I’m stuck here, writing myself into a corner and pretending nothing’s wrong.

I push to my feet and stalk into the kitchen. The under-cabinet lights flicker on as I move to the fridge.

“Whoa. He’s actually risen.”

I shut the fridge door. Mason lurks on the other side. He chews on God knows what and cocks a grin. “Wanna know where Mack is?”

“Somewhere escaping your annoying ass?”

“Yes.” Mason follows me to the counter where I toss the lunch meat and cheese I’d pulled. “She’s also meeting a certain lady friend.”

McKenna doesn’t have a lot of friends, a lot like Dee. There’s only one woman she could be meeting. I wonder if Dee’s talking about us or if she forgot about the weekend the moment I shut the town car’s door. Wouldn’t blame her if she did. It—us—we’re nothing but a farce.

“How did it go with Dee, anyway?” Mason hovers close as I slide the bread over. Assuming he’s drooling on my shoulder because he wants one, I grab four slices and lay them out. “Be useful. Grab the pickles.”

Mason swivels to the fridge. “I’m talking about your finance stuff. How was it?”

Mason has no clue about our arrangement, and I don’t care to tell him. While unscrewing the lids of the condiments, I reply, “As you should’ve expected. I’m not giving over my finances.”

“Pity.” Mason comes up beside me, tears off a piece of lunch meat, and chews. “Dee could’ve helped.”

It’s such a simple statement, and coming from Mason, totally worthless, but the meaning sticks. Dee would’ve helped. She stated more than once she was willing to take a look, outside of our agreement, despite our unexpected sex. She still wants to help me solve the mystery of Ma’s funds, why Brad’s circling her and the house like a shark. Ma might need to go back in rehab, and I don’t know if I have the current capability to send her.

I reply to Mason, “You got this? I have to go write an email.” I sink the knife into an open container of mayo and round the counter.

“Yeah, buddy. You don’t put enough mustard on this baby, anyway.” Mason elbows me out of the way.

The laptop’s where I left it—precariously perched on my synthesizer. I sit and pull it onto my thighs and look up Dee’s firm’s website. Her company email address is easy to find, and I start composing an email.

Mason says from the kitchen, “Her opinion might be moot, anyway. With what’s going on, you may not have to worry about all that shit anymore.”

I lift my head. “Huh?”

Mason shrugs, popping a pickle into his mouth. “Just sayin’. Keep an eye on your phone.”

“I’m sure I’ll feel it vibrate against my ass any minute,” I reply with heavy sarcasm and get back to writing the smartest, most capable, coolest professional email I’ve ever written in my life.

“Let me hear some of the music you’ve written,” Mason says, heading my way with two full plates. “I’m listening to spits and spurts, but I want to get the whole feel.”

“Yeah, sure. One sec.”

I type my name in the signature line and give one last skim of the most painful two sentences I’ve ever written.

Miss Sparrow,

I will take you up on your offer to look into the Rothlessberger financial accounts. Attached, you will find my mother’s most recent bank statements. Please call me at your earliest convenience and I will provide you with further secure information.

Kind Regards, Wyn.

Does that sound right? I nod once to myself. Cool as a cucumber. Might as well be one of her ace clients, it’s written so officially.

It’s definitely better than thinking of the rock in my gut.

“So. What’d’ya got?” Mason falls onto the couch, his sandwich long gone.

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