to sit down and talk.”
“I’m not interested in that. I want to transfer funds, establish another account—in my name only. Can I do that?”
“Yes. I can set up an account for you. How much do you want to transfer?”
“All of it.”
“Breen—”
“All of it,” she repeated. “Or when I meet with you and my mother, I’ll have a lawyer, and I’ll sue her for, I don’t know, embezzlement.”
“She hasn’t touched the money.”
“I’m sure a lawyer will know what term to use. I want my money so the next time I sit down to pay bills I can pay off my student debt and take a full breath again. This money came from my father into your hands. He trusted you to do the right thing by me. I’m asking you to do the right thing.”
“You’re of age. You can sign a document to have your mother’s name removed from the account. I’ll need to see your identification, you’ll need to fill out some forms. I’ll need to call in one of our notaries and a witness.”
He laid a hand over hers again. “Breen, I believe you. But would you mind giving me the name and number of the principal at your school? Just for my own peace of mind.”
“Not at all.”
CHAPTER TWO
By the time Breen walked into Sally’s, the place was in full swing. Colored lights streamed over the crowded bar, the packed tables. The spotlight beamed on Cher—or Sally’s version thereof—belting out “If I Could Turn Back Time.”
Truer words, Breen thought.
She made her way through the enthusiastic crowd, even managed to smile when someone waved or called her name.
Marco caught her eye, bless him, sent her a quick salute as he mixed drinks.
He wore a spangled silver shirt—Sally’s was a spangly place—snug black pants, and a silver hoop in one ear. Recently he’d started sporting a little goatee, and she thought it suited him, like the long braids he tied back. His cocoa skin gleamed.
Sally’s was hot, in more ways than one.
“Geo, give our girl a seat.”
“No, no, that’s okay.”
But Geo, small, thin, and resplendent in red, hopped right off the stool.
“You sit, sweetie pie. I gotta make the rounds anyway.” He gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Our baby looks tired.”
“I guess I am.”
She took the stool while Marco filled an order. Then poured her a glass of white wine.
“You’re late—and you didn’t even change. That’s some sad outfit, girl.” Then his eyebrows shot up when she downed half the glass in one go.
“Okay, that looks like the end of a rough day.”
“Rough, strange, scary, exhilarating.”
And she burst into tears.
“Geo! I’m taking my break.”
He rushed through the pass-through, grabbed Breen’s arm, and pulled her with him into the backstage area.
A couple of the performers sat in front of the Hollywood lights on their makeup counters, gossiping.
“Ladies, we need the room.”
One of them, done up gorgeous like Gaga, pulled Breen into an embrace. “There, baby girl! It’s all going to be all right. You trust Jimmy now. No man’s worth your tears.”
Another kiss on the cheek, and with Sally moving into “Gypsies, Tramps & Thieves,” Marco sat Breen down.
“What happened, honey? Tell me everything.”
“I—my father—”
Marco gripped her hand tighter. “He got in touch?”
“No, no, but he—Marco, he’s been sending money since I was ten. He started an account, an investment account with Allied, and he’s wired money every month. She didn’t tell me. She never told me, kept it locked in a drawer. And all this time . . .”
She looked down at her hands. “I forgot my wine.”
“I’ll go get it.”
“Wait. It’s . . . Marco, I have as of today, because there were dividends and—I have to learn about all of this. But as of today, I have three million, eight hundred and seventy-eight thousand, five hundred and ninety-six dollars and thirty-five cents.”
He goggled at her. “Did you have a dream or something? Baby, you know sometimes you have those dreams.”
“No. I’ve just come from a meeting with my broker. I have almost four million dollars, Marco.”
“You sit right here—don’t move. I’m going to get the wine. I’m going to get the bottle.”
She sat, and caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror.
Really pale, she realized, eyes tired. She’d pulled out her hair tie, and the work she’d done that morning blowing it smooth was wrecked. And the brown rinse she used once a week to calm down the red—too much attention, too distracting—had faded to mouse.
Didn’t matter, she thought. Just didn’t matter. As soon as she