Page 228 of Five Brothers
I recently acquired a six-hundred-dollar bottle of wine. Get over here. Both of you.
Holy shit.
I smile. This doesn’t change my fate, but it will ensure Mars andPaisleigh can govern their own. I drop the phone to the desk, fold my arms over my chest, and take a long drag of the stale cigarette.Fucking yes.
“Oh my God!”
I jerk my eyes to the door, seeing Paisleigh.
“I’m gonna tell Mom you’re smoking.”
I blow out the cloud and grin at my little sister. “I got a better idea.” I snuff out the cigarette. “Let’s dance.”
I don’t have to sell my Rover. My father was hiding assets, after all. Not a lot, but enough.
Just enough.
“I must say,” Jack Hewlitt says, “you could’ve gotten more at auction.”
I sign the papers, handing each to him one by one. He leans against the edge of his desk while I sit in a chair, using it to write on. “I’m not interested in waiting.”
I’ve spent the past two days liquidating two paintings, one sculpture, and the entire wine collection, and I did find a small account in my name. I transferred the funds to one my father doesn’t have access to. I haven’t asked him why he put the stuff in my name. I know why.
He knew he was leaving her. A long time ago.
And he assumed I wouldn’t notice before the divorce was final. He was almost right.
I didn’t find anything in Mars’s or Paisleigh’s names, and there’s more that I own, but I’m not going to sell everything off yet.
“No waiting, huh?” Mr. Hewlitt teases. “Leaving the country?”
I smile small. “I’m not going anywhere.”
He hands me my copy of the documents, and I shake his hand. “Nice doing business with you.”
“And you,” he says. “These will fetch a good profit. Thank you.”
Agreatprofit. I sold them to him for much less than my father paid, and art doesn’t go down in value.
I rise, my earring swaying across my neck, and I wet my lips, because the lipstick coating my mouth feels dry like clay. I slip my forearm through the handles of my Gucci bag and take my paperwork with me.
My phone rings, and I nod a goodbye to Jack.
Fishing the phone out of my bag, I see my father’s name on the screen. I changed it toLachlan Conroyinstead ofDadmonths ago.
“Hello?” I answer.
“You’ve been busy.”
I shudder a little at the curtness of his voice. I almost forgot.
He always sounds like someone who’s jetting from one meeting to another. A little rushed. Distracted. Bothered. He doesn’t have an accent, but he adds one on purpose. Just on a word here and there. An inflection at the end of a sentence maybe. Sometimes it sounds Scottish. Most of the time it’s some weird concoction of British and Bostonian.
“Krisjen, listen to me—”
“No.” I walk slowly, heading to the front door of the gallery.
“We have asked for you. Mars and Paisleigh have asked for you, but now that I’m selling property you hid in my name … Now I warrant your attention?”