Page 4 of Billionaire Grump
I’m rooted to the spot, not daring to go further now that I’ve actually strolled into my estranged father’s house.
What the hell do I do now?
I can’t just turn around, order another Uber and disappear back to New York. That would be too convenient for him. I want him to know I came. That I took him up on his empty promise.
From where I’m standing, I can make out the room on my left. The door is open and it’s filled with dark furniture—a nice change from the sterile front hallway. Bookcases, a heavy mahogany desk, one of those leather wing-backed chairs.
Dad’s home office, I’m assuming.
“Dad?” I call out once more. I told him I was coming. I knocked. I did all I could do to announce my presence.
I’m not breaking and entering. I’m his own daughter. His flesh and blood. I just want to leave a note. This isn’t illegal.
And now I’m standing in his office. There are built-in shelves with books and trinkets I don’t recognize. This man is a stranger who’s lived a life I have no connection to.
There’s a framed picture of Anita and my dad, at a beach somewhere. She’s in a bikini and looks every bit of her twelve years younger than he is.
There’s another framed photo, of the twin boys. I go over and pick it up, to take a closer look. As I do, of course I notice the glaring absence of us. I shouldn’t be surprised. There’s not a single shred of evidence in this office that Josh or I have ever existed. I’m so hardened to this by now, usually. But the in-your-face reminder hits me hard.
No picture of his other son, who’s so smart and handsome and who’s worked so hard to get into freaking Columbia. Why isn’t that good enough? Why were we never, ever good enough?
You cold-hearted prick.
The boys are dark-haired with green eyes that are very similar in color to our father’s. They’re beautiful boys. They’re identical twins and they look it. Neat haircuts and little ties. All dressed up for their photo shoot.
I place the photo neatly back on its shelf. On a whim, I take out my phone and take a picture of it. They’re my brothers, after all. I’m allowed to have one small keepsake of them.
Looking around, I have a very strong urge to leave.
If I leave a note, I will, of course, be incriminating myself. Announcing that I entered his house without being invited. Then again, the Visit anytime! comment is the reason I’m here. With an exclamation point and everything.
And this is the last time I’ll ever try. It’ll be a goodbye note. A fuck-you-and-have-a-nice-life final farewell.
I check the desk for some Post-Its or note paper. There are piles of paperwork covering the desk. There’s a Finlay & Hobbs Law mug filled with pens. I take a pen and carefully rummage to find a blank piece of paper. As I do this, a small stack of papers slide off their pile, fluttering to the floor.
Shit.
I pick them up, carefully trying to return them to the way I found them.
I can’t miss the fact that the page on the top of the pile is a bank statement.
Of course I shouldn’t look. It’s none of my business. But the numbers printed onto the page seem to take on an almost 3D quality, jumping out at me and insisting I read them.
It’s the number at the bottom of the page that catches my attention. A lot of zeroes tend to do that.
Six zeroes, to be precise, with two ones in front of them. The high-interest savings account is based in the Bahamas and holds…holy shit…eleven million dollars.
I read it again, as if there might be some explanation on the page.
The account is in his name. There’s no other conclusion to jump to. This is Roy Laine’s bank account and it contains Roy Laine’s money.
Eleven million dollars of it.
My chest aches with sadness. I shouldn’t be here and I definitely shouldn’t be snooping, but seeing this just about breaks my jaded heart.
I have to stop myself from ripping the statement to shreds, from pushing everything off his mahogany desk and letting it crash to the floor in a pile of chaos.
How long has he had this money? Where did it come from? I’m sure he’s making bank as a lawyer but this is some serious cash.