Chapter Twenty-Nine
Tiffany
The cops haul my father away. Not for any of the financial crimes I’d like — I recognize the impossibility of convincing the fifty-something Officer Paulsen of my father’s many financial misdeeds and moral cowardice before I even pick up the phone — but for suspicion of domestic assault; I look like a mess when the police arrive, bruised and frantic and with my clothes torn and dirty, and my father, because of his years of being distant from anything involving genuine emotions, looks totally guilty.
The second they slap cuffs on him and put him in the back of the patrol car, I heave a sigh of relief.
This is nearly over.
Now, I’m just an unemployed loan specialist with a community college degree, a lover in the hospital for numerous injuries, and absolutely no idea what she wants to do with her life.
Is this what victory feels like? Because it really, really sucks.
Storming into the house after watching the patrol car leave, I slam the front door behind me and head to my father’s kitchen, where I pour myself a drinking glass of wine and just think, which is something I haven’t had a spare moment to do in way too long.
I have to be the one to think ahead. Because, out of everyone involved, I’m the best person for that job. Blaze and his club have incinerated this festering fraudulent infection in Torreon, but I need to be the one that cleans this mess up. I need to make sure that the people who were hurt by Anna Ebri are made whole.
And that means homework. And reports. Two things that I excel at — I went to Stanford, after all.
Propelled by excitement and urgency, I head to my father’s bedroom and find his laptop at the bottom of his suitcase. I take it out, guess the password — which turns out to be my birthday because I guess my dad isn’t as smart as I thought he was — and start combing through his computer.
This will take a while. And it will take all my focus.
I head back into the kitchen and call Stone on my dad’s landline.
“This is Stone,” comes the no-nonsense voice.
“How is he?”
“Incredibly capable of pissing off his doctors and making rash, high-consequence decisions about his health.”
“What’s he done now?” I say.
“They’re prepping him for surgery,” he says in a voice that sounds serious even for Stone.
My heart stops. My brain tries to grapple with the implications. Not that long ago, he seemed fine, notwithstanding the shot he’d taken in the shoulder and the battering he’d taken from Anna’s thugs. But none of that seemed the kind of injury that required major surgery.
“Is it serious?”
“They’re going to take some of his liver.”
“What? He didn’t get shot anywhere near there. Stone, what’s going on?”
“They’re doing a transplant. It’s Eleanor who needs a new liver. Blaze is giving her part of his.”
I look down and find my glass of wine empty. I refill it, hoping it’ll drown the concern and fear swirling in my belly. No matter what it costs — even if it costs him his life — that headstrong man just won’t stop giving.
“Just like that?”
“This is a guy who thinks it’s fun to parachute into forest fires. He didn’t hesitate a second.”
That gives me some reassurance, but I still finish half of my glass of wine in a gulp. Then I set it aside — I can’t be drunk for the work that I’ve got to do.
“Is he going to be OK?”
“Over the time that I’ve known him, there’s a thousand other dumber, more dangerous things he’s done that should’ve killed him, and he’s come out of them just fine. Blaze will pull through. His mom should, too.”
“Can you keep an eye on him for me, Stone? It will be a while before I can get down there.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” he says. “But what are you staying away for? Is something wrong?”
“I’m fine. And I will make sure that this mess gets cleaned up and Eleanor’s home is taken care of.”
“Just what are you planning, Tiffany?”
“I’m going to do my homework and put together a report. And, before you even ask, I will not mention a word about your club. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a lot of reading to do.”
I end the call before he can say anything; it’s probably not the smartest thing to do, hanging up on the president of a motorcycle club, but I’m already feeling the effects of the giant glass of wine and the excitement building in my chest; I can finally do some meaningful work with my degree: I have the chance to uncover and rectify some enormous financial misdeeds.
I set about it with focused, Stanford-educated vengeance.
Hours pass in my dad’s office chair as my fingers dance across the keyboard and my glassy eyes stare into the depths of his laptop screen, prying open every crime, documenting every bit of evidence, until I’ve compiled a report so comprehensive it could double as a thesis.
When I finally stop and take in the totality of my work, I’m proud — actually proud — of what I’ve done.
For the first time in way too long, I don’t feel like some underachieving, broken failure. I feel like an intelligent woman who has the potential and capability to do outstanding things. This report will be my first step toward something greater. Because I’m not done by a long shot.
My father put so much time into encouraging my academic potential, and the greatest achievement I’ve made in that area is documenting his moral failure. Now, I will take this achievement and make something of myself.
After I make a few copies of my
