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On the table in front of him, three open laptops displayed scrolling numbers. I couldn’t see what they represented, so I took a step and then stopped. My goosebumps became moreprofound.I don’t like this. Not at all. I wanted to go back to school or head to Manhattan where, if I couldn’t procure an internship, I could at least nanny all summer. Whatever was on those computers would be a problem—I already knew it, and I hadn’t even looked yet.
I closed my eyes and remembered how when I was a teenager, this was all I wanted.To be part of my dad’s company.He’d brought me from school to help him. Wasn’t it my goal?
I lifted my head and met Michael’s gaze. Why did I look at him?
He has nothing to do with this.
But he was always in charge of safety, and fear practically choked me, clogging my throat. I swallowed and met his stare evenly. He didn’t like the situation, either. In fact, he was closer to us than when we’d left the dock.
I was about to be on the Atlantic Ocean with two Russians and Kit’s father, not to mention my own. I could pretend I was seasick. I could have a fit like a teenager and go back down to my room. Or I could walk to the computer.
As a terrible liar, I wouldn’t be able to pull off any scenes or sickness. Besides, deep inside of me, Iwantedto look at those screens. I couldn’t think of anything I wanted more.
Well, almost nothing.But the person I craved more than anything would also always be unavailable to me.
I walked toward the screens.
Thanksgivingat our home always proved a problem. We catered it, if one of us remembered—Layla did the honors for our current meal. The five of us sat around the table, staring awkwardly at each other. Layla worried about the calories, so I guessed sheprobably had to be seen in public the next day. Maybe she was worried about how disgustingly drunk Kit and Justin had been the night before, when we all went out together? I worried about it, and I shot my brother a look. His bloodshot eyes looked as red as the wine he was eyeing like he might like to down it then start on the rest of the bottle.
My father held his phone, scrolling through things and grinning. He was happy at least. Hope’s gaze seemed distant, and I wondered if she was okay. Her expression seemed very un-Hope-like, but if I pressured her, she would likely say something about how I never tell her anything, so why should she tell me? I would gladly share if there was something interesting to share. Did she want to hear about my classes, or how I sat in my room and worked on Dad’s project all the time lately?
I chewed on my lip, working up the courage to say something. Finally, I managed, “Dad.” My voice cracked, so I cleared my throat before I continued. “Can we talk after dinner?”
“We can talk now.” He abruptly got up and walked out of the room. I supposed I was meant to follow him?
I turned to Layla, catching her hand and squeezing her fingertips. “I didn’t mean to disrupt this lovely meal you ordered for us. Thanks for doing this.”
“Go,” she waved her hand. “Who cares?”
Well…I did, actually. Couldn’t we have some traditions, some nostalgic things we did every year? Eating one meal together at Thanksgiving shouldn’t be such an ordeal.We are family; that has to matter. What would our lives have been like if my mother lived? The thought jarred me, especially since I almost never thought about her anymore.
Ever.
I got to my feet, set my napkin next to the plate of uneaten food I intended to finish later, then followed my dad from the room to his office. He was always either in the home office orhis bedroom. Logically, he must use the bathroom, but he wasn’t really anywhere else when he was home. Currently, he stood by the window with his hands behind his back.
“You have done such a good job. We’re making so much money.” He shot me a smile.
“Dad…” I took a long breath. “Do you know who those men are? Do you know your partners in this?” I invested money heavily, and I worried about the dealings with that crowd. “Does Zeke know you’re making them money? It’s my understanding that most of your sales come through him, right?”
He pointed at me like he might obliterate me with nothing more than his finger. “No, he doesn’t, and you’re not going to tell him.” My father paused, raising a single brow as he steepled his fingers thoughtfully. “Why this sudden interest in my business associates? We’re very rich right now, making more money by the second. Be happy with that.”
I held up my hands in surrender. “I’d never tell Zeke anything, but I thought you should know. I just…I looked them up, Dad.”
As I’d never done, not once in all the months I devoted myself to making a unique macro style of investing that was able to withstand the ups and downs of the volatile market where we found ourselves. I researched ways to move the money to offshore accounts, so the Russians could take their funds and avoid American taxes...I never asked myself who the fuck I was making money for, not before then.
But then I drank three glasses of wine last week, and I looked them up.
These were bad men. Very, very bad men.
“They blow things up, Dad. Theyhurtpeople. They’re basically terrorists, but I’m sure you didn’t know that, either. I found out they’re directly responsible for the deaths of fifteen different people from an apartment building in Moscow lastmonth.” I wanted him to see the report I found, so I pulled out my phone.
He waved me away. Didn’t he understand? “We’re making them even richer. They use that money to…”
“To do whatever the fuck they want, Bridget. You think we get to tell people how to spend their money? It isn’t our concern. Does anyone tell us what to do? Do they get to comment on your expensive college? Or your sister’s wardrobe?”
Was he deliberately misunderstanding me? “I don’t think it’s at all the same thing, unless you’re plotting a terrorist event I don’t know about. You’re responsible for who you choose to do business with, especially if it comes down to death and destruction. We don’t have to one hundred percent agree on ethics to agree on that much, I’m sure.”
My father put his hands on the desk as the slow smile crept across his face. “But I didn’t make them any money, Bridget. Not one penny.Youdid.”
