Wow. What kind of an evil man had Charlie Moshen been to do this to his only kid?
“If you want to bring in the statements you’ve received from the bank over the past five years, we can get this straightened out,” Britney said, a snotty grin on her face. She slid Petty’s ID and the cash to the edge of the counter. “Next.”
I blocked the next customer and said quietly to Britney, “Would it kill you to be nice?”
“Next!”
Petty ran out the door.
Chapter 8
OUTSIDE, I COULDN'T seem to get enough air.
“Are you all right?” Dekker asked me.
I shook my head. I looked up and down the street and then at the steamy white clouds in the blue--gray sky, thinking.
I should be able to get copies of all the check stubs from Mr. Siebert, my boss at the dump. Dad must have deposited my checks into another account. I could prove that with the pay stubs. This money wasn’t part of the trust. It was all mine. I needed to go down to Mr. Dooley’s office to see if he had Dad’s financial records. Otherwise, I didn’t know where they might be.
Dekker stood motionless, staring at me.
“What?” I said finally.
“What are you going to do?” he said.
“I’m not sure.” I turned and walked west down Main Street toward the lawyer’s office.
“Um, bye,” Dekker said to my back.
Randy’s truck kept pace with me. His window slid down. He was not pleased. “Where are you going?”
I stopped and turned back to thank Dekker for his help, but it was too late. He was walking back into the bank.
“I’m going to walk down to Mr. Dooley’s office,” I said to Randy.
His eyebrows came together. “Okay,” he said, but the end of it rose like a question. I ignored him and ran down the block to Mr. Dooley’s office.
I burst in the door and said, “I need Dad’s bank statements.”
An old man in overalls sat in the inner office. Mr. Dooley half stood from his desk and said, “I’ll be with you in a minute, Petty.”
“How much money does Dad have in his checking account?”
The old farmer turned around in his chair and stared at me.
Mr. Dooley rose from his chair and walked around the desk. He put his hand on the farmer’s shoulder. “Give me one minute, Ben.”
The farmer nodded, still staring at me.
Mr. Dooley’s lips were white and tight over his teeth. He went to a filing cabinet and pulled out a file. He opened it, removed several sheets of paper and slammed them down on the counter in front of me.
“Here’s your father’s last bank statement.” He pointed at the bottom of the page.
It said $79.45.
“No,” I whispered. “There must be another account somewhere.”
“There’s not,” Mr. Dooley said in a low voice. “This is all there is.”
“What happened to all my money?” I shrieked.
“Shh,” Mr. Dooley said. “The fact is, Petty, you were pretty much supporting you and your dad. And paying the premiums on the life insurance policy.”
“So . . . so all my money is . . . gone.”
“No. It was invested in the life insurance policy.” He positioned his face in front of mine. “Which you can have as soon as you marry Randy.” He put on a big phony smile and said loudly, “Okay?” as if he were speaking to a particularly slow toddler.
I felt a stinging in the bridge of my nose. I was going to cry.
Mr. Dooley scrubbed his hand over his face. “Did you ever stop to think how hard all this is for me? I’m only the messenger, but I’m the one who’s getting all the fallout from what your father did. Think about that for a while.”
He seemed to expect me to say something. I didn’t.
Mr. Dooley blew out a sigh. “Fine. I hate to have to put it this way, but marrying Randy is your best option. Deal with it.”
But it wasn’t my only option. I had my blade with me.
“Where is your bathroom?”
“Thatta girl,” Mr. Dooley said, smiling. “Upstairs. Go freshen yourself up. Everything’s going to be fine. You’ll see.” He winked at me, turned and went back to the inner office.
I climbed the stairs straight up, not sideways with my back to the wall like I normally did, because it didn’t matter anymore. Dad had stolen my money. He had made sure I’d be trapped here forever, that I’d never have a life of my own, ever. He’d died and left me all alone, to be given away to strangers like the rest of his stuff, as if I were a pet goldfish or a tablecloth. I was nothing, and when I was gone, no one would miss me.
At the top of the stairs was a cramped hallway, piled with boxes and furniture and typewriters and adding machines. I was never going to escape. I couldn’t drive, I had no money, and unless I married Randy I’d lose the house at the end of the month and have nowhere to live. I now saw that no one and nothing could help me. There was no reason for me to go on living. My blade burned against my skin. It was my way out.