Page 37 of The Billionaire's Shrubbery

The kitchen makes and delivers fresh popcorn and four bottles of homemade ginger beer, which we eat and drink while watchingUnsolvable Crimes: Solved, side by side on my couch.

Normally, when someone interrupts a show or movie to ask if I saw something, I want to strangle them, but having Virginia tap my thigh with excitement and then pause the video stream to show me what she sees in the criminal’s answers, the clues to his guilt, is fascinating. Her powers of observation and deduction are like no one else I’ve ever met.

“Did you study criminology? You could be a police interrogator.”

“No. It’s just always been an interest of mine.”

“Always, like, while other little girls were playing house with Barbies, you were playingMurder, She Wrotewith yours?”

Virginia’s normal confident and joyful energy has returned. “It is positivelyshockinghow many serial killers live in Barbie’s world.”

“Seriously, how did you get so good at this?” With the screen now off, I want to face her, so I push myself back against the arm of the couch and stretch my legs toward her. Without hesitating, Virginia twists sideways, grabs my calves, and again massages them. Jesus, I could get used to this.

“If I tell you a story that I never share, will you promise not to tell anyone? Not even Colt? Is it even possible for you to keep secrets from him?”

My gut twists. Yes, it’s possible. I nod. “And maybe one day, I’ll tell you a secret that not even Colt knows.”

“My parents didn’t name me Virginia Beach. I mean, they called me Virginia, but my sister chose my last name and had it legally changed when I was fourteen. Hers too.”

“So the teasing didn’t start until high school?”

“I didn’t go to high school. Georgia homeschooled me.”

“How much older is she?”

“Just six years. But she adopted me when I was thirteen, after our mom died.” She looks at her hands and even though her head is tilted down, I can see by the wrinkles in her forehead that she’s sorting through what to say next.

I tense my calf muscle, which draws her eyes upward.

“You don’t have to talk about this. I don’t need to know.”

“I want to tell you. It’s just, I’ve never told anyone, so I’m not sure what’s important and what’s just”—she shrugs—“gory details, I guess.”

“Virginia, I’m sorry I asked. I expected a funny story. I don’t want to dredge up bad memories.” God knows I don’t want to have to revisit my own, and yet, I’ve been doing exactly that for the last nine weeks since Joe ended our nightly sessions.

“Whether I talk about it or not, the memories are still there.” She takes a deep breath and plasters on a big smile. “Please hold all questions until the end.” Then her expression grows serious. “Do you remember about twenty-three, twenty-four years ago—you probably don’t—but there was this case where a man, a relatively new multimillionaire, disappeared without a trace, leaving his wife and two daughters behind?”

I shake my head.

“Well, I guess it was a big thing on the news for months. I was only twelve, so I wasn’t actually paying attention to news, but I heard things at school since kids talk, and I guess their parents were watching and making guesses. The missing man was my dad.”

“I am so sorry.”

She waves away my comment. “Whatever. He was an asshole, it turns out. Like Class A prick material. He was the founder and CEO of a small tech company. When I was nine, he got lucky and sold the business for an obscene amount of money. We moved from a small house in East Van to a mansion in the British Properties. We had a pool and a gorgeous yard with so many flowers and trees and beautiful skylights in our bedrooms. God, I loved that house.”

Virginia stares into the distance for a long minute, and I imagine she’s remembering details about her old home. I don’t move or speak.

“After two years, I was in grade six. One day, out of the blue as far as I could tell, dear old Dad just kicks us out. Like, literally, he had all our things packed up and put in a moving van. He said we didn’t fit with his new life, that we weren’t polished enough. Mom freaked out and threatened all kinds of stuff, but Dad had figured out how to hide the money, I guess, since Mom got nothing from him.

“Georgia had just turned eighteen, so she got a job and got her own place, and Mom and I moved into a tiny one-bedroom, back in East Van. And things were OK. I never went without food, but it was hard since Mom was obviously depressed and she was angry all the time.”

“Fuck, Virginia, I am so sorry.” I have no idea what else to say.

“We lived on our own for, I don’t know, not even a full year, like a school semester and a bit, and then Dad disappeared. Off the face of the earth. His new girlfriend accused Mom of killing him, assuming he’d be leaving money for Georgia and me.”

The penny drops, and I do remember this story. It was big news in our family’s social circles. It was before Dad died, and I remember him and Mom talking about what they thought happened. I recall they assumed he’d gotten himself a fake identity and moved to the other side of the world, where he could disappear. I don’t remember why they thought that, but that’s what I remember.

“Since Mom had been threatening him”—she looks up and gives me a pointed stare—“not as if she wouldeverhave done anything. All that talk was to make the point of how angry and hurt she was that he left us after he got rich. But she was arrested, and I was put into foster care.”

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