Chapter 38
1109words
The papers are spread across my bed like I'm planning to make a thousand paper flowers for a wedding. They cover the blanket so thickly you can hardly see it between the gaps. Stalking around the mattress, I write hastily on the back of a scrap piece I've folded in half.
My notes must make me seem insane. No one could decipher my scribbles, which have been made in increasingly frantic lines. But I need to write to keep track, and also … to believe that what I'm seeing is true.
This can't be real. It just can't!
Staring in between my writing and the documents, I finally sink onto the floor in a heap. There's no denying it. I've gone over everything a hundred times—it's nearly dawn. After the high- octane escape out of the mansion and back again, I'm awake from pure adrenaline.
What I've learned is going to change everything.
Mom ... is this what you didn't want me to know?
The major trail of income into the dance studio points in one direction. For years, my father accepted money from a dubious source. Someone he—and my mother—didn't want others to learn about.
But now I know.
Yannick Grachev.
Scowling in rage, I throw my notes into the air. They float harmlessly, like poorly made paper airplanes, until they settle on the floor. Lifting my leg, I crush my heel on them, twisting until my muscles ache. How could they do this? Why did they do this? Was the studio doing so badly that my parents sought out Yannick's help? Or did Yannick approach them first with an offer?
Was it Dad who started down this treacherous path?
Was it Mom?
On top of that, there's an even greater mystery. Marching to the bed, I sweep the documents around until I'm reading the ones I want. The data shows that ten years ago, all the money from Yannick came to a sudden halt.
'What does all of this mean?" I groan, holding my head in my hands. I wish I could ask Mom. She has answers, but she refuses to give them to me! If I confront her, she'll put up thicker walls, denying it even further. No information will get her to admit something she's clearly ashamed about.
I saw it numerous times growing up. Mom has always been quick to lie when it comes to her pride. When I was growing up, nothing was more important to her than seeming like a happy, stable family. And we were ... for the most part. A thought jostles me. My parents fought. Not often, but if I remember right, they started getting into more arguments … around ten years ago.
My attention flies back to the paperwork. With growing apprehension, I start gliding my fingers over the slips of paper. The data on them is taking on new meaning. If the money stopped ten years ago, was that what caused their growing tension? There were nights where I would hide in my room, listening to them scream at each other, wondering if they might get divorced.
When I asked Mom about it, she scolded me for even thinking such a thing. Her pride was something else. She denied anything was wrong with the studio either.
Until she couldn't.
I frown suddenly. Was anything wrong with it? Granted, I was young at the time, but I don't ever recall there being a lack of students at our place. The studio was always busy. Why would there be financial troubles at all?
I need to know the truth about how Yannick is connected to my family.
Collecting all the documents, I stack them in a neat pile. Placing them in the box, I stash it under my bathroom sink behind a box of tampons. It's the only spot I can think of that the staff won't bother with. They clean my room every single day. No one can find these papers. I don't know what will happen exactly if they do, I just have a feeling it won't be good.
At a minimum … Asher will think I'm hiding something from him.
I am hiding something.
I've folded the clothing I wore into a neat pile. From the rear pocket of my pants, I retrieve what I took from my house. The brooch shimmers in the light. The rose inside from my father's funeral is preserved forever. The glass is smooth in my palm. I press it to my chest, clutching it as my heart pounds.
Dad ... I miss you.
If he was here, he'd know what to do. He wouldn't hide answers from me. Yes, he kept the illicit money from Yannick a secret. But if I asked him directly, he'd come clean.
Unlike Mom, he never lied to me.
I went to him after one particularly rough argument I'd overheard. It ended with my mother storming out the door, driving off with the tires squealing.
Dad slumped at the kitchen table. He wasn't much of a drinker—special occasions were the only time I saw him drink from a glass. But that night, he'd gone to the cabinet, yanked out a bottle of vodka, and sat down to drink straight from it.
His face went white with shame and humiliation from being caught by his fourteen-year-old daughter in such a pathetic state. I asked him cautiously if he and Mom were going to be okay. He motioned for me to come to him. I sat in his lap, though I was too old for it.
His eyes watered, but his smile remained strong. Holding my shoulders, he looked me in the eye and said, with all the confidence of a man who knew he could not lie, 'Things aren't as good as they could be, malyshka. But they will get better."
Shaking myself until I'm dizzy, I hide the brooch with the papers under the sink. I wish I could wear it, but it's as dangerous as the papers themselves.
I have to build up enough courage for what I plan to do. I've spent too long allowing others to dictate my life.
The sun peeks through my window. Shielding my eyes, I close the curtains. It helps dim the room. If I wasn't dead on my feet, it would be too bright to sleep. As it is, I hardly get under the covers before sleep controls my mind.
Every time I think my feet are on stable ground, I keep stumbling into the holes others have dug for me. That time is over.
When I wake up, I'm going to do my own digging.
