“The American dream.”
“Basically,” she scoffs. “Anyway, shortly after Kit-Bit skyrocketed, my dad's brother, my uncle Garrison, tried to claim that he was the co-founder.” A crease forms between her brows. “Things got really ugly for a while. At one point, he even threatened to sue him.”
“Damn,” I say, and she nods.
“In the end, my dad settled out of court. Not because my uncle's claims were right, but because it was tearing my grandmother apart to see them fight.” She casts her eyes down. “The woman is evil, but she loved both her sons more than life itself.”
She hitches a shoulder up. “They didn't talk for a few years after that. Then one Christmas day when I was seven, he randomly showed up at our house hysterically crying.” Her jaw sets. “He said he was diagnosed with cancer and his doctors didn't give him long to live so he wanted to make amends. Of course, my dad accepted him back with open arms. He was family after all.”
A hunch burrows deep in my gut. “Let me guess, shortly after there was a delayed Christmas miracle and he was in remission.”
She grimaces. “Less than three weeks later. And mysteriously his doctor's office burned down, ruining any trace of his medical records...not that it mattered. My dad and uncle were then closer than ever.”
She folds her hands in her lap. “You see, my father was a computer genius and a great businessman...but he wore his heart on his sleeve, which led to people taking advantage of him. Cut-throat he was not.” She laughs. “My parents were kind of hippies in a way because they were all about peace, love, and happiness. They just loved to love and would help anyone in need.”
She wipes a tear from the corner of her eye. “Anyhow, a few months before my father's passing, my uncle invested in a brand new private airline for the rich and famous.”
I feel my heart drop a little with those words and I silently urge her to continue.
“I know it sounds crazy, but I think my uncle Garrison had something to do with my parents' murder. The pilot my dad hired privately also worked for the airline my uncle invested in, and I—” Her eyes pierce mine. “I feel it in my bones, you know? There's this overwhelming awareness that sits like a boulder in the center of my chest. But no one believes me.”
Her mouth flattens and that angry scowl returns. “Around six years ago, I reached out to the police about my suspicions. They listened but ultimately said there was nothing they could do. They had no proof to charge him and they told me that not only was my uncle very cooperative when they spoke to him, but him investing in the same airline that happened to hire a pilot who ended up crashing the plane that killed my parents was more of a bad coincidence than a motive. Then they told me if I wanted to talk to them again, I needed to come back with my guardian.”
She inhales a breath. “Later when I brought it up to my nanna, she became so livid she locked me in the basement until I apologized for even thinking such a thing.”
“What?” I growl, startling myself.
“Relax, I survived. I even learned to get used to it; given it was a common occurrence after that. Although for a different reason entirely.”
I massage the tension building like a skyscraper in my neck. This entire situation is awful. “It's none of my business, and you don't have to answer, but who did your father's money go to?”
“It's super complicated.” She chews on her bottom lip. “My mom was estranged from her family, so my parents appointed my Nanna Bishop, my dad's mom, as my guardian in the event of their deaths and created a trust. Right now, my nanna oversees it, since she's power of attorney, the beneficiary of their will, and my guardian, with the understanding that when I'm twenty-five whatever's left gets turned over to me.”
When I make a choked sound and shoot her a look of horror, she quickly says, “I know how it sounds, but I promise it's not as bad as you think. My father has written instructions pertaining to me that my Nanna has to abide by.” She starts ticking things off with her fingers. “Necessities like food, shelter, and clothing are paid for out of the trust, and my college education is covered. I also receive huge gifts for my birthdays and holidays.”
She motions to her BMW. “Like this sweet ride.” She leans against the windshield. “In addition to all those things, I also get an allowance every month. A nice one, given my parents were billionaires and all. Unfortunately, there are some issues with that thanks to my Nanna and her contingencies—” She pauses and shame shadows her face. “God, I shouldn't even be complaining. My parents made sure I didn't have to want for anything, and although I'd give it all up in a heartbeat to have one more day with them, I'm extremely fortunate for what they left me.”
“No judgments here,” I tell her, feeling relieved. At least she's being taken care of on some level. Not that I should give a rat's ass, but the business major in me is glad to hear it.
I watch as a star zooms across the night sky. “Just think, in another three years it will be all yours and you won't have to deal with your grandmother anymore.”
“Four years,” she corrects and I do the calculations again.
“Sorry, guess I assumed from what you said before that you started your senior year of college and would be turning twenty-two this year.”
She twists her hair on top of her head and pulls out some kind of clip, securing it in place. “Nope, I'm a December baby. My parents enrolled me in school early, so I was a year younger than all my classmates. I'll be twenty-one on December 13th.”
I inwardly wince. “Lucky number thirteen, huh? I'll be twenty in February.”
“February what?” she asks and I immediately regret saying anything.
I mumble my reply and her lips twitch. “You're a Valentine's day baby?”
I glare at her. “Do you have any idea how annoying that is to hear?”
“Oh, please,” she says. “I was born on Friday the thirteenth at exactly 1:13 a.m. weighing in at six pounds and thirteen ounces. Do you have any idea how annoying it is to hear from Triskaidekaphobic assholes that I'm some kind of bad luck charm?”
I try not to cringe, I really do, but she catches me anyway. “Seriously? You too?”
I study the paint on my car. “I like to gamble. It goes without saying that gamblers tend to avoid the number thirteen at all costs.” When she huffs out a breath, I say, “Don't worry, I'm not gonna run away screaming or anything.”
“Not even if I ask nicely?” she counters.
I grin. “Not even if you ask nicely.”
An uncomfortable feeling swoops in my stomach as I recall her words from earlier. “You said before that your grandmother locking you in the basement was a common occurrence growing up...why? Other than the fact that she's evil of course.”
She blanches. “You know, I've been telling you a lot of personal stuff and I hardly know anything about you.”
“That's not true,” I defend. “I just told you my birth date and that I like to gamble. That's more than most girls find out by the third date.”
Her eyes flicker with rage again and I remember we're supposed to be enemies.