Page 90 of Don't You Pucking Dare

"Lola."

Everything in me goes cold. That voice. I'd know it anywhere—it's the voice that promised to come back, promised to get clean, promised a thousand things that never happened.

I turn around.

"Hey, mom." I watch her closely. She’s wearing nice clothes and a practiced smile on her face. I ask, "What're you doing here?"

"I'm here for the meeting, sweetheart." She says it like this is just another day.

She walks toward me, movements steady. No shaking hands, no darting eyes. When she pulls me into a hug, she smells like department store perfume instead of stale cigarettes. Something's off. I can feel it in my gut.

"Did they ask you to be here too?" I ask.

She nods, brushing her hair back. It's clean, styled even. "Of course."

"But I'm an adult," I say. The words come out quicker than I meant them to, sounding defensive.

She shrugs, adjusting her purse strap. "It's not just yours, Lola."

The bank doors unlock with a heavy click. I stand there, studying her like sheet music I can't quite read. She seems almost... normal. Like whatever cocktail of meds they gave her at that facility was to keep her from being normal. She has no twitching, no scattered thoughts, no desperation leaking through the cracks. She’s actually… put together. Which is why my gut sinks even more.

I follow her into the bank, watching her walk behind the person who unlocked the doors. She says, "We're here to see Daniel Rothschild."

My stomach drops. She shouldn't know that name.

"Right this way," the person says, leading us down a hallway that has a fake plant at the end.

The office they take us to is all dark wood and leather chairs. A man in an expensive suit sits behind the desk, but something about his smile doesn't reach his eyes. Warning bells go off in my head like wrong notes in a familiar piece.

I shouldn't be here. We shouldn't be here.

"Let's get this started." Rothschild leans back in his chair, leather creaking. His suit probably costs more than my cello. "I've prepped everything for you, Lola. All you have to do is sign your life away." He chuckles, all white teeth and expensive haircut. "I'm kidding. After this, your life may never be the same."

The words hit me like dead notes. $1.5 million dollars. Blood money. My father's final joke.

"But first, the letter," he says.

"Oh, right." My mom straightens in her chair. "There's a letter."

"So sorry, Mrs. Kemper." Rothschild's tone shifts, professional courtesy hardening into something else. "It's only for Lola."

"Only me?" The question comes out small. I stop myself from glancing at my mom. She’s only here for the money, so I can’t turn to her for comfort right now. It doesn’t matter how normal she seems in this moment, she’s here for her own reasons, of which does not include me.

He nods, then looks pointedly at my mom. "Could you give her a minute?"

"Sure." She's still playing nice, still wearing that annoying fake smile. The door clicks behind her, leaving us in silence.

Rothschild slides an envelope across the polished desk. Heavy paper, my name written in unfamiliar handwriting. Rick Kemper's last words. I can’t believe he left me anything. I don’t deserve. I don’t even know him. This isn’t sitting right in my stomach.

The envelope trembles in my hands as I open it. I’m expecting a lengthy explanation, maybe an apology, but as I unfold it, there’s a few sentences in the center of the page. My gut twists.

Lola Kemper, if you are reading this. Take this money and run very far. Trust no one.

Ice spreads through my chest. He knew. The bastard knew he was going to be murdered and now—now what? I'm next? The money isn't a gift. It's a target. Why would he want to give it to me? Is this a sick fucking joke?

I fold the paper with numb fingers, too aware of the closed door, of my mother waiting outside like a spider. I place the letter back in the envelope, not meeting Mr. Rothschild’s eyes. I’m trying to figure out what the hell is going on.

"Your mother can come back in now," Rothschild says, watching me too closely.

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