Page 21 of Bitter Rival

Founding a startup takes a different set of skills than running a successful company so I’m looking forward to selling and moving on to my next venture.

But I got what I wanted out of the deal—financial security.

I never again want to be in the position where I need to scrimp and scrape just to pay the rent and utilities.

I never again want to have to beg, borrow, and plead for money.

Helpless. Powerless in the face of my mother’s depression that she never emerged from.

When I was fifteen, I found an in-patient treatment center on the internet that promised amazing results. I hadn’t spoken to my father in two years, but I made an exception and called him to ask for the twenty grand I needed.

He pleaded poverty so I got myself kicked out of the fancy boarding school and called him back. “There. Problem solved. Now send me the fucking money.”

By the time he coughed up the money, it was too late. My mother was dead.

And I will never, ever forgive him for that.

As far as I’m concerned, loving my father is what ultimately killed my mother, and Astrid was the one who pulled the trigger.

“So what’s Astrid up to these days?” I ask casually. As if that could ever be a casual conversation.

Daisy sits back in her seat and studies my face, no doubt debating whether to trust me and how much information she’s willing to share.

The silence stretches out between us so long she starts to fidget, but I just wait and say nothing. I could sit here all night without breaking a sweat.

“I have no idea,” she says finally. “I haven’t seen her since I was seventeen.”

That’s not what I expected to hear, but she could be feeding me a load of bullshit. “No contact whatsoever? No birthday cards or phone calls or messages by carrier pigeon?”

Her eyes meet mine. “If you’re trying to find my mother, I won’t be of any help. I don’t even know where she is.”

I mull over the possibility that she’s telling the truth, but for all I know she’s a skilled liar like her mother.

“What happened when you were seventeen?” I prod.

“She left.” Her gaze dips to the plate in front of her. “I came home one day and the guy she was living with told me to pack my bags and get the hell out.” She shrugs like it’s no big deal, but I get the feeling that it is.

I don’t want to picture seventeen-year-old Daisy getting kicked out of the house with nowhere to go and no one to look after her so I’m choosing to believe it’s a lie.

But it sounds exactly like something Astrid would do.

And if Daisy is telling the truth, it adds up. Astrid’s last known whereabouts were Santa Monica, where she lived up until seven or eight years ago.

“Hey, Beckett,” Daisy says when we get back to the house. “Do us both a favor and don’t try to find her. If Astrid shows up here, I’m out.”

On that note, she climbs the stairs and a few seconds later I hear her bedroom door closing.

That sounded a hell of a lot like a threat, which only goes to prove that there’s nothing sweet or innocent about Daisy Larsson.

It also proves my point that you should never sign anything until you’ve read the fine print.

Did I skip over a few key points when I was summarizing the contract for her?

Of course, I did.

Was I playing fair? Hell no.

But she never should have trusted that I would, so as far as I’m concerned, that’s on her.

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