Page 13 of Free to Fall

Please, oh please, I pray silently. “Yeah, Tony. I’m with Caleb and Keene. You can relay the message aloud.”

“Sorry. They said no go. They’re full up. Said to try a local service since it’s late to be looking.”

Shit. “Thanks for the message.”

Caleb’s amusement fades. “What happened to Mrs. Destry?” Since he referred me to her when I took the job, I’m not surprised he remembers her name.

“Quit. Daughter’s moving to England, and she wants to go with her.”

He rubs his thumb beneath his lower lip. “How much time do you have until she’s gone?”

“About two weeks. Why? Have a miracle you can pull out of your ass?” I joke half-heartedly.

Both men exchange an unreadable look. Caleb shocks me when he replies, “I just might. Let me check on a few things and I’ll get back to you.”

“You’re not kidding, are you?” Please, oh please. Don’t be kidding.

Caleb shakes his head. “No. I just need to wait to find out about a current ... sit-rep. One of us can let you know for certain the day after tomorrow?”

I hold out my hand. “You’d be saving us, man. Thanks.”

He takes it before he leaves my office. Keene stares after him for a few moments before we resume our conversation about Beckett Miller’s audit, and while we’re cracking jokes at the rockstar’s expense, I feel relief.

For the first time since hearing Mrs. Destry will be leaving us, I have a flicker of hope.

Chapter

Five

On my drive to our home in Darien, I think back to what I consider BB and AB—Before Bailey and After Bailey.

There’s no question—after Bailey is the only place I want to be, even if during those first few years I had to deal with the bitch I made her with.

Growing up, I was the only child of two upper-middle-class parents who were shocked they had a child so late in life. I loved my family, I did. It’s just that what we had wasn’t what I have with my daughter. Like you can imagine your father brushing your hair and being whacked in the face with a hairband. Just the idea of Nolan Payne doing such a thing forces a grim smile to cross my lips.

Maybe that’s why their death in a car crash on the way home from a charity event left me stunned but not devastated. By the time I was seventeen, I was essentially living on my own. Making my own decisions. I felt sorrow, but in a distant way—much like the way they cared for me.

If anything, I was grateful their accountant stepped up to become the mentor I never knew I was missing after their death. Larry urged me to meet before I did something stupid with the millions I inherited between bank accounts, stocks, and life insurance policies paid on people dead too soon.

Over dinner, he reminded me not only did I owe a shitload of taxes, but asked, “What do you want from your future, Liam?”

“I don’t know.”

“Stick to my original plan. Go to college. Figure out what you want from life. There’s plenty of money for you to do that. When you determine what you want from your future, then we’ll talk more.”

“About the money?”

“About whatever you want.”

Since that one meal was more sincere parenting than I’d received in the seventeen years before that, I took his advice. Larry checked in with me quarterly, along with my accountant, to go over my financial portfolio. I found myself fascinated by the numbers they were throwing at me.

Not long after, my future seemed to coalesce in a series of small events. I caught my roommate rifling through his girlfriend’s purse after sex to pocket some of her spare cash. After reporting him to the RA, my disgust lingered. I didn’t want to stay where I was tagged with the reputation of a “narc.”

I also wrapped up an elective in criminal justice that mentioned forensic accounting. After chatting with my professor and learning more about the field, I took an unscheduled trip home and met with Larry to discuss some options.

After wolfing down a fried pork sandwich, something no one makes correctly outside of Indiana, I explained the chain of events leading to my decision about wanting to transfer to Purdue. “I want to become a forensic accountant.”

A flash of pleasure crossed his face before it adopted its more serious mien. “You’ve really thought this through.”

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