Page 77 of Just Come Over
She didn’t know how long it was. She only knew that, when it was over, she had her head on Esther’s desk, the hand under her face was shaking uncontrollably, and so was her knee.
“Here.” A paper cup of water appeared on the desk a few centimeters from her eyes, and she sat up, took it in both hands, and tried to take a sip.
“Thanks,” she said. “Sorry.”
“No worries,” Esther said, looking fully human at last. “My husband gets panic attacks. I thought that was it. I almost rang for an ambulance, but then I thought, no, too much of a coincidence. Because you’d been gulping air.”
“Oh. Do you have a... tissue?” She was sweating. Dripping, in fact. Some people really knew how to be businesslike.
She wasn’t having a heart attack now. She was just approaching hysteria, or massive detachment, or something. There was a name for that, when your mind got overwhelmed and separated. Whatever it was, it was happening.
Esther shoved a box across, and Zora wiped her face and hands, took another drink of water, looked at the paper again, and said, “I need to see all his account activity. I need online banking. Put me on the account. Set me up.”
Esther said, “I’m not sure if I can do that.”
“For banking purposes,” Zora said, the heat rising from her chest to her throat, “I’m him. The lawyer explained it. I can ring her up right now and have her explain it to you. I can afford to pay her to do it. That surprises you, I’m sure. It surprises me too, but here we are. I have his power of attorney. We just went through this.” Not panic this time. Rage. She breathed some more. This wasn’t Esther’s fault. “Please. It’s my money. It’s my account. I need to know.”
Esther said, “Hang on. Let me check with the branch manager.”
Another fifteen minutes, during which time her paperwork still wasn’t getting done, and during which time she stared down at $127,218.65 and tried to make it make sense.
It only made sense one way. That Dylan had hidden money from her.
For years.
Why, exactly? Because he’d planned to leave her and Isaiah all along, and he’d wanted an extra slush fund when he did, that she wouldn’t know about and he wouldn’t have to share. What other answer was there?
When he wasdying?When she was shaking out two more Oxycodone tablets, because the Fentanyl patch wasn’t enough? When he was moaning with the pain, with the anxiety and the terror of knowing there was nothing else to do, nothing else to try, and no recovery possible? When all of that had been ripping at him with steel claws, shredding his bones, and she could practically see it happening? When he was holding her hand like it was all that he had to hang onto, and telling her, “Hurts.Hurts.I can’t do it anymore. I can’t. Don’t leave me. Please.” And she was lying down beside him, wrapping her arms around him while he clung to her, while he tried not to cry and cried anyway, sobbing with pain and fear?
He’d still kept this secret?
How could that be true?
How could it not be?
Something was wrong.
Another man might have tried to deny it, but Rhys had learned a long time ago that problems didn’t go away when you ran from them. Problems could always run faster than you could.
On Thursday night, he’d texted Zora from the hotel in Tokyo and hadn’t had an answer for so long that he’d fallen asleep waiting. When he woke on Friday, there was a video message from Casey, dressed in her Mickey and Minnie PJs, her hair in its loose bedtime plait.
“I hope you have a very good Captain’s Running tomorrow,” she said, and he heard Isaiah in the background, saying, “Run.” Casey said, “Iknow,”then faced forward again and said, “I think it’s very hard when you can’t yell at people, so maybe you should just say, ‘Good job,’ or something. Or give them a sticker.” More talking from Isaiah, and Casey said, “Or you could stamp their hand, because then it’s there to remind them for all day.”
He went to breakfast with a smile on his face, but realized, when the Captain’s Run was over and hehadn’tgiven anyone a sticker, that Zora still hadn’t texted herself. When dinner was done with and he was sitting on his bed again with nothing more to add and nothing left to do until tomorrow, the moment of truth when the team’s training and their preparation would be tested in the only way that counted, she still hadn’t. So he did. He texted,How’s the roof looking? Did they finish?
Fifteen minutes, and he finally got an answer. Not the one he’d expected.I found the money after all.Thank you for the offer.
He didn’t even think about texting again. He called.
Voicemail. He rang off and tried again, and this time, she answered.
“Rhys.”
“Yeh.” Something was wrong with her voice. Too tight. “What happened? Casey?”
“No. She’s fine. I... Some things came up. I need to focus now, and I know you do, too. I’ll be there on Sunday. I’ll see you then.”
“Wait,” he said. “If something’s wrong, tell me now. I can’t fix it if you don’t tell me.”
