“That was nice of you to invite Kirsten,” I say as Aisha fills a couple of glasses with ice.
“I feel bad for her . . . I kind of always have. She seems like someone who could use friends.”
Tyrone hollers over his shoulder. “Isha? Can you throw me a Red Bull?”
She rolls her eyes, but pulls a can out of the fridge. “I didn’t realize you’d gone deaf,” she yells over a commercial, handing him the can as she climbs over the back of the couch.
Tyrone looks up, doing a double take when he sees me. “Mom and Dad are ‘conversing’ about me in the study again.”
“Ooh . . .” Aisha glances down the hall toward the door and cringes. “Then by all means, turn it up.”
I perch on the edge of the sofa, but I’m not at all focused on the screen. Tyrone looks up at me and raises his eyebrows. “Told you that wasn’t me next door.”
“What?” Aisha tilts her head closer.
Tyrone leans over and shouts. “I was telling Sonia that’s what happens when you get kicked out of Notre Dame.”
My stomach tightens. I’d been hoping it didn’t really work out meant he’d dropped out, not this.
Aisha stares at him, then shifts her startled gaze to me. I guess this isn’t news everyone wanted to share.
The doorbell rings. Aisha digs around in her pockets. “Shit, I left my cash in my other jeans.”
“How much is it? I’ll get it.”
“You’re not paying.”
I roll my eyes. “It’s pizza.”
“And Tyrone will probably eat half of it. You can’t pay for it.”
“Okay, then at least let me run up and get the cash for you.” I head for the stairs before she can stop me. “I left my phone up there anyway.”
“Fine. There should be a couple twenties in the denim capris by the desk. Left side, back pocket,” she says, making for the door.
“Got it, be right down!”
Once I’m on the second floor, I head straight down the hall toward the attic stairs, but I stop in front of Tyrone’s room. At first glance, it isn’t the neatest place on earth, but it’s a far cry from Aisha’s spectacular disarray. I look once over my shoulder to make sure no one’s coming before poking my head in. If there was ever a shrine to football, this could be the template. There are trophies and awards all over, posters from movies about football, even an actual football inside a plastic display case. Pennants from every major Division 1 school decorate the walls, including one from Notre Dame placed prominently over the bed. I look at the walls and shelves, but I don’t see any hint of a portrait of Gretchen. I leave the room.
I take the attic steps two at a time, coming to a halt at the sight of the heaps of laundry. There must be ten different pairs of jeans strewn around. I dig through my own pockets, but what I thought was a twenty and some ones turns out to be just a ten-dollar bill. I fall to my knees and search every pair I find with no luck. I’m about to give up and holler down for Aisha when I notice a patch of denim sticking up on the floor of the closet. It seems like a slim chance, but I kneel down and tug. The jeans pull free easier than I expect, setting me off balance, but when I see what else came with them, I gasp.
A white purse lies on top of the clothes. Out of it spills a pile of cash.
I freeze. It’s not loads of money like they show in TV bank robberies, but it’s more cash than I’ve ever held in my hands. I look toward the door, trying to decide what to do. There are several stacks of tens and twenties wrapped in bands like you might see at a bank—five thousand dollars after I’ve counted it all twice. I look more closely at the purse—a familiar white Michael Kors tote with a gold clasp—and that’s when everything inside me goes numb.
TWENTY-EIGHT
AISHA CALLS UP THE STAIRS, asking if I’m okay. Her feet follow on the steps and my heart races into action. Even if I had time to put everything back, I’m not sure I could pretend I didn’t find this—Gretchen’s purse filled with cash, hidden in Aisha’s closet.
“Sonia, I can only entertain the delivery guy so lo—”
I hold the money in one hand, the purse in the other, and blink up at her.
Her eyes are huge. “Where did— What are you doing?” She comes across the room, grabbing the purse and cash out of my hands, stuffing the bills back inside.
“What is this about?”
“It’s nothing—it’s not even mine.”
I swallow. “Yeah, I know.”
“Look, I don’t know what you’re thinking, but whatever it is, you’re wrong.”
“Aisha . . .”