All the Missing Pieces - Julianna Keyes Page 0,101
theater. No one even goes into the basement. People barely ever go into the actual fucking theater.
“It’s a misunderstanding, sweetie.” My dad gestures for me to sit and pats my hand as he takes the seat across from me. Even though he’s a little roughed up and dented, the glint in his eye is unmistakable. He’s the smartest man I’ve ever known. And he’s in trouble.
“What are they saying? Is this some trumped up speeding thing? There’s so much press outside. They probably—”
“They’re saying I stole money,” he interrupts. “From my clients.”
My jaw drops, the shock real. “What? How could they—” My father doesn’t need to steal. He earns every one of the millions of dollars he makes each year because he’s good at his job. His clients are his friends. They adore him. They trust him.
So do I.
“Two hundred and twenty million,” he adds.
If possible, my mouth opens even more. “What?”
“They said they followed the money and found two hundred million dollars in off-shore accounts. But there’s twenty million still missing.” His stare is unflinching. “They don’t know where it is.”
It feels like the cameras are zooming in, reading every spike of my pulse. “Do you know where it is?”
“Of course not,” he says.
I bury my face in my hands, trying to compose myself. “Of course not,” I repeat. “This is a misunderstanding.”
“Absolutely. They don’t understand. But you do, Reese.”
I’m scouring my brain, trying to work through the ramifications of what he’s saying. If he knows where the twenty million is—if it’s in the fucking theater basement, of all places—then my father is a thief. And he wants my help. If you read the papers, you know I’m a lot of things—whore, ditz, socialite—but I’m not a thief and I’m not a liar.
A knock on the door makes me jump, and we turn to see an irritated Trapper shuffling back to allow my dad’s lawyer, Lincoln Anders, to enter.
“Linc.” My dad looks surprised as he stands. And so, so guilty.
“Kimball,” Lincoln replies, glowering at Trapper. “Not another word, you understand?”
“Yessir,” he answers.
“Daddy,” I say.
He gives me a tiny nod. “I love you, Pieces. Take care.” But take care of it, is what he means.
Trapper jerks his chin to indicate it’s time for me to go. They didn’t get what they wanted, so the Good Cop has taken his leave. He skims over my outfit with a contemptuous sneer. “Party’s over,” he drawls.
I was twelve the first time I tried a pair of high heels. My dad’s then-girlfriend taught me how to walk. I remember my ankles twisting and my knees banging together as I limped up and down the hall, determined to master the skill. Now I head outside on the shakiest heels I’ve ever worn, swallowed up by the screaming swarm of press and onlookers. I don’t have words for them. I don’t have words for anything right now.
There’s a free taxi in the center lane, and I slip through stalled traffic to get in the backseat. The photographers pound on the windows so hard the car shakes, a million stars exploding as they take my picture, each one a flashing dollar sign.
I tell the driver I want to go home.
HALF AN HOUR LATER, I stumble off the elevator and into the dark penthouse. “Alex!” I shout, kicking off my shoes and striding into my dad’s office, tequila my only desperate thought. We have a bar in the living room, but this is where he keeps the good stuff. “Alex! You’d better be here, you fuckwit! Something’s up with Dad, and I need your help!”
No answer. I’d called him a dozen times on the interminable drive home, but each call had gone directly to voicemail. I can’t even remember which performance they’re putting on at the theater tonight, but it had better be truly fucking phenomenal if I’m dealing with this crap by myself.
My dad’s office smells like cigar smoke and cedar. Paper and ink. Time and money. The walls are lined with heavy wooden bookcases, every square inch filled. The desk is made of the same wood, designed to be imposing but functional. Before I worked at the firm, I used to come in here and sit in one of the upholstered seats opposite his big leather chair and wonder what it was like to be the richest person on the eastern seaboard. I wanted to know what it was like to have that money at your fingertips, to know you’d earned it and everyone knew.