Page 34 of Win Big

“True.”

“Did he remember everyone’s names?”

Mom tilts her head, a little crease between her perfectly groomed eyebrows. “That’s an odd question,” she says slowly.

I sigh. I’m not good at subtle, I guess. “He’s been forgetting people’s names a lot lately. Even people who work for the team.”

I can immediately tell that Mom knows exactly what I’m talking about. Her smile disappears, her eyes shadow, and her shoulders slump a tiny bit.

“He forgets other things,” I continue, my voice quivering with emotion. “But he’s really good at covering it up.”

She nods slowly. “I’ve tried to get him to go to the doctor, but he refuses to admit he’s having problems.”

“Oh God.” I squeeze my eyes shut briefly. Mom just admitted it. He’s having problems. She’s worried too. “He needs to go to the doctor.”

“Youwant to try to convince him?” Her voice is dry. “Good luck with that. You know your father.”

“Yes.” I blow out a long exhalation. “Is that why you’re spending so much time at the office?”

She looks up at me, her lips parted. “You’ve noticed that.”

“Not just me. Théo too.”

“Hell.”

“Mom.” I lean forward. “What’s going on between Mark and Matthew and Dad? I think Théo suspects you’re at the office so much because you’re stealing money from the team, or something.”

Her jaw drops. Then she snaps it shut, her forehead pinched. “That’s bullshit.”

I grin. Mom projects the image of a meek little trophy wife dressed in designer clothes and shoes, always perfectly made up. But I know the real her. “I know it is.”

“They’ve always thought that about me,” she says, relaxing. She could sound bitter about it, but she doesn’t. “I know it. They think I married your father for his money. And that I helped him steal money from Mark and Matthew.”

I throw subtlety to the wind. “Did you?” I hold her gaze.

“No.”

I nod. I believe her. “Did Dad?”

Her lips thin. “I’m not talking about this to you.”

“Why not?” I straighten my spine. “It’s my family too, and I hate all this stupid crap. If Dad didn’t steal their money, just tell me so.”

She says nothing.

“I take it that he did.” My head drops forward, my stomach clenching. Fucking hell. I did not want this confirmed.

“I said I’m not talking about it.” Mom’s tone is firm, like it was many times I wanted something I couldn’t have.

The server arrives with our salads and she immediately beams a smile at him. I ordered a fattoush salad, lots of chopped greens, cucumbers, tomatoes, chicken, and crisp, fresh pita chips. Mom’s salad has chickpeas and roasted eggplant.

The server refills our water glasses and I pick up my fork, no longer hungry.

“I want to know what’s going on,” I mutter, stabbing a piece of chicken. “I want it over.”

“It will be.”

I give her a slitty-eyed look. “When? How?”

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