I’m at a loss for words. Instead, I throw my arms around Dad’s waist and bury my face against his chest. What I find doesn’t bring me the same comfort.
He smells like cheap soap and the clinical cleanliness of a holding cell. Mild sweat taints his clothes—a probable sign of stress. But what’s most telling is the beat of his heart beside my ear.
It’s fast. Worrisome. Uneasy.
“Are you okay?” I pull back enough to peer up at his face.
He forces a smile, partially hidden by his growing beard, and nods. “I’ll be fine. Where’s your brother?”
“Upstairs.” I slip free and step toward the staircase. “Colt! Dad’s home!”
An awkward minute ensues with no sound from above.
“Leave him,” Dad says. “He’ll see me soon enough.”
Mum chooses her moment to join our reunion in the foyer, sweeping in from the rear of the house—both hands empty. She’s taken the time to fix up her loose hair and to present an air of togetherness that neither Colt nor I were awarded.
“James.” Bony hands find his jawbone, and she places a kiss to one cheek. “We’re all so glad you’re home.”
He watches her a moment; my breath held as I wait for him to speak. But he doesn’t. There’s no greeting for his wife of twenty-odd years. No sign of heartache eased.
Dad’s jaw twitches before he slowly steps backward out of her hold. “What have they taken so far? They need to stick to the manifest.”
And as quick as he arrived, he’s gone—talking with Mum as though they’re no more than colleagues discussing an unresolved business transaction.
I was warned that nothing would be the same after this arrest, but I suppose up until this point, I’d blindly left my faith in Dad. I’d somehow hoped that all it would take to mend my broken family was the reinstatement of its patriarch.
Something changed while he was gone. The power shifted. The man who once ruled this house with no more than breadwinner status has now relinquished that role.
But to who?
Our mother doesn’t earn a thing. Our father is out of a job.
Without any income stream and our possessions packed away for liquidation, what do we have left?
Nothing. Which leads me to ask next: when all you know is gone, where on earth do you restart?
“Are you keeping all of these?” I shuffle through a stack of magazines from several years ago.
Colt lifts his head from where he roughly jams summer clothes into a large stamped box. “There’s one with an article about an Aventador that I want to keep. I need to figure out which one it is.”
“Why?” I scour the taglines on the cover of the issue in my left hand, trying to figure out if it’s the one he needs.
“Because it was customised, and I like some of the ideas they had.”
I drop the stack on the foot of his bed and pin him with a no-nonsense stare. “Do you think that you’ll ever have enough wealth again to afford an Aventador?”
He gives up trying to mangle the top tabs of the box shut and kicks it instead. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“No reason,” I murmur.
The speed at which the authorities dissolved our assets was blinding. One week we were hanging on tenterhooks, waiting to hear what would happen with Dad, and what seemed like the next, speaking too loudly in the empty parlour created an echo.
Prosecutors were able to recover a margin of what the investors lost, but most were happy to settle outside of court. Especially when told that a lengthy court case was likely to recover nothing.
In my heart, I know had the same happened to Libby, or any other of the Chosen, I would have stood by them and praised their efforts to set things right. But for Colt and me, the more of our possessions that went out the front door, the further we slipped down the social ladder.
I hold on to my place amongst my peers by a hair’s breadth. Which means I need to work twice as hard to keep it.
“Two more days,” I remind Colt.
“I’m well aware, Lacey.”
Forty-eight hours left in this home. I need to work fast.
“Let me know if you’d like any help, okay?” I head for the door.
“Have you finished your room already?”
Hand to the frame, I pause, turning back to Colt. “Yesterday. I figured I’d get a head start.”
He smirks, shaking his head as he regards the overstuffed box. “You’ve always been the straight-A kid, haven’t you?”
“Outwardly, yes.” I match his mischievous smile.
He knows the truth—the real reason why I ended up in a co-ed preparatory school like Riverbourne.
As I skip light-footed downstairs, my thoughts drift to our new school—Arcadia High. Mum showed us information about it online, and at first glance, it seems rather impressive. But the stone buildings and carefully kept gardens aren’t my main concern.
The students are.
What kind of kids attend a rural college? What sort of riffraff will I encounter?
How easy will it be to win them all over?
“Mum.” I swing into the conservatory, where she sits on the floor, absorbing the morning sun. “May I ask something?”
Her shoulders rise with a laboured sigh. She doesn’t sit peacefully in meditation like Ingrid’s mother, or with a book to read like Greer’s. Nope. My mother sits with a bottle of spirits by her right knee, and a half-empty glass to her left.
This scene has become the new norm.
“I’m sure you’ll ask, either way, so spit it out.”
Anticipation flutters in my gut. How I word this means the difference between success and failure.
“Can I go out with some friends tomorrow night?”
“No.” Without hesitation, she shot me down.
“Why not?”
“Because we need to be up bright and early the following day to pack what remains of our things into the ratty moving truck, and I’m not spending precious hours of rest chasing you down when you don’t return by curfew.”
“I promise I will.” I damn well beg. “It’s
