Page 112 of Midnight Enemy

“It’s not one transfer,” Kingi says. “It’s over fifty smaller ones conducted over a period of a few months so they’re harder to spot.”

I’m shaking a little now. “You’ve… you’ve mixed up the figures, or misunderstood, or—”

I stop as George lets out a long groan and puts his face in his hands. I stare at him, shock making me speechless.

“It was me,” he says. “I’m sorry, Scarlett. I’m so sorry.”

I stare at the top of his head. He has a kind of tonsure, a bald spot in the middle of a ring of gray hair. I hadn’t realized that.

“It was you?” I say eventually. “You’ve been taking money from the commune?” I look at Kingi, who’s sitting with his elbows on the desk, hands clasped, his mouth resting on them, then at Orson, whose expression is undecipherable.

I look back at George. He’s now lifted his head, and he’s staring at the floor with glassy eyes.

“Why?” I whisper.

I’m not stupid, and whatever Orson thinks, I’m not completely naive. People steal for many reasons. Some do it for mental health reasons, some for the thrill, others are attention seeking, but mostly they don’t have the resources to get what they need or desire because of financial hardship.

As far as I know, George doesn’t have a psychological disorder. He’s not a thrill seeker—he’s told me he would never bungee jump or skydive and hates going on rides at theme parks. I can’t see he’s doing it for attention. It can only be because there’s something he wants or needs, and due to the fact that we don’t have our own finances, he’s felt the urge to take from the commune.

I could sort of understand it if he’d taken fifty bucks or a few hundred or even a few thousand for some luxury item he’d missed, like Scotch or jewelry for his wife or… I don’t know… a piece of technology. But a hundred and twenty-three thousand?

“I was going to leave the commune,” George says. “And I needed money to do that, for a deposit on a house.”

My heart bangs on my ribs. “You were going to leave?” My voice is small enough to fit in a snail shell. Since my father’s death, George has been like a rock for me. The thought that he has been considering leaving me is a huge shock.

His eyes meet mine, shining with tears. His shoulders are hunched and he looks in pain, as if he’s drunk a beaker of acid and it’s eating away at his insides.

“What about Jeannie?” I ask. His wife is amazing, and I always thought she adored the commune. They couldn’t have kids, and she loves helping out at the school.

He winces as if he’s bitten on a sore tooth. Then he says, “Her too.”

It makes sense, I guess. “But don’t you get to withdraw your initial investment anyway if you leave?” I ask, confused. I’m sure there’s some clause in the agreement everyone signs when they come to Kahukura. George and Jeannie were among the founders of the commune with my parents, and I know they had a house in Auckland that they sold to come here, and they would have put that money into the commune.

“A percentage of it,” he says, “and it wouldn’t be enough in today’s market. I’m so sorry.”

“Stop saying you’re sorry,” I snap. “I don’t believe this. You wouldn’t do that, not to the commune.”

“People do strange things when they’re in trouble,” he says, and Orson and Kingi exchange glances.

The back of my neck prickles. There’s something they’re not telling me. I can feel it. My brain works furiously. If he was going to leave, what’s stopped him? Why hasn’t he taken the money and run? Could it have been the fact that knowing Ana and I would be alone made him think twice?

That raises a question in my mind. “Did Dad know?”

I can tell immediately by George’s face that I’ve guessed correctly. My lips part as realization settles in. “You talked to him about it on the day he died.” It’s a statement, not a question. I know immediately that I’m right.

“Yes,” George says. He brushes his hand over his face. “He’d discovered the discrepancies, and he broached the topic with me. I denied it at first, and tried to think of other reasons the funds could have gone missing, but he knew I was lying.”

“Oh God,” I whisper. “The shock gave him the heart attack.”

He puts his face in his hands again.

Tears well in my eyes in seconds and spill over my lashes, as fast as a tsunami hitting the shore. “You as good as killed him,” I say, the words falling from my lips as if I’m hurling stones at him.

“I know.” He’s shaking. “I’m sorry.”

“Stop it! Stop saying that!”

Orson gets suddenly to his feet. “Nope,” he says. He puts his hands on his hips, shakes his head, and states again, “Nope.”

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