by Holly Hart
She never gives any indication she wants my money. I swear she doesn’t even like the high-price designer labels I keep filling her closets with. She still wears those clunky studded black leather boots that look like they once marched into Iraq during Operation Desert Storm.
“We’re fine,” I say, turning away. I watch as the manager puffs out cheeks that are turning beetroot red before turning away.
“In fact,” I say, calling him back briefly. “Who’s your boss?”
“I’m the manager of this –.”
I flick my fingers dismissively, copying the man’s gesture from earlier. “No. Your boss: the CEO.”
The manager’s cheeks quiver as he processes my question. “Michael Kowalski,” he says. “Why?”
I look back at the saleswoman. She looks like she’s doing her best to shrink into the floor; as though there are a thousand other places she’d rather be, as long as they weren’t right here, right now.
“Ah, Michael,” I nod, as if I’ve got any idea who he’s talking about. “How could I forget?”
“You know him?” The manager asks, his eyes gleaming with interest.
“He knows me, anyway,” I say, flipping the question in an unnecessary power-play that doesn’t fail to bring a small smile to the corners of my lips. “I think I’ll drop him a note, commending Susan for all her hard work.”
The manager’s fists ball up at his sides as he grapples with the idea that Susan, not he, will get all the credit. The idea fills me with happiness. I don’t know why, but something about this man has me all riled up inside.
“Thank you, sir,” he says. He gives me a slight nod before turning away, bristling with irritation.
I take a second to compose myself so I don’t burst out laughing, and then turn back to Susan. “I’ll take it,” I say, pointing at a diamond necklace set into a gorgeous, thin platinum-gold setting that’s going to look stunning draped around Penny’s neck, dangling between her perfect, perfect breasts.
Susan’s fingers quiver. She clears her throat nervously. “Of course, sir.”
All of a sudden, Susan’s gone from impatient to all kinds of nervous; and I think I know why.
“Can I let you in on a secret?” I ask as she brings up the purchase. I lean forward conspiratorially.
“Of course, sir,” she says as four thousand dollars flashes up on the register.
“I’ve never met Michael Kowalski,” I grin, handing over my AMEX. “I just wanted to take that pompous ass down a peg.”
The worry seems to drain out of Susan. Her shoulders relax forward and she lets out a deep breath she’s been holding onto.
“Thank you,” she says, smiling shyly. “It’s just – I really need this job. I’m still on probation, and Tony – the manager – is kind of,” she looks around, searching for the right word: “Creepy.”
I file the man’s name away. The thing about having friends in high places is that it’s easy to do good things in the world.
I slip the necklace box into the inside pocket of my suit jacket, pull out a small wad of notes and pick out about a thousand bucks. I don’t count it.
“Here, take this,” I say, handing it over. “Take your kids out for dinner.”
Susan’s features crinkle with disbelief. “How did you know I’ve got kids?” She gasps.
“I’m perceptive.” I grin, and turn to leave.
“Thank you…” She whispers.
I step back out into the crisp cool of a New York springtime evening. The sky is now blood-red, and glitters off the acres and acres of panel glass that stud the skyline.
I start walking, feeling upbeat. I swear, sometimes giving a gift makes the giver feel better than the receiver. That’s certainly the case for me.
Of course, it doesn’t take long for all that to come crashing down.
After less than fifty paces, I stop dead in my tracks in front of some PR agency’s offices. Hell, it might even be one that Thorne Enterprises keeps on retainer. The lobby is filled with TV screens, all displaying the same cable news channel.
The ticker at the bottom is what catches my attention. It reads, “Wincorp Merger Announcement”. I step forward until my nose is practically pressed up against the office window. I feel like someone’s sucker-punched me. My phone vibrates in my pocket. It’s blowing up with alerts.
Landon Winchester’s holding his goddamn press conference on the steps of some fancy museum. It’s not just a press conference, either.
It’s a fucking ambush. He’s trying to take my company without even giving me the courtesy of a damn phone call.
Prick.
But if that wasn’t enough, as I watch him walk down the stairs like some minor European royal, toward the baying press pack, I see something on the screen that fills my stomach with twisting anger. It attacks my stomach lining like acid.
Penny: dressed to the fucking nines; disappearing around a corner. I know it is: I’d know that body anywhere.
“Six billion dollar bid,” the ticker reads.
It’s a fucking insult of a price for a company that’s worth twice that, but that’s not what has me so fucking pissed off. No, suddenly I realize – at least, I think I do – why Penny doesn’t care about my money.
It’s because she already has Landon’s.
Then my stomach twists further. I figure out that if Penny was his weapon – digging dirt on me from the inside – then it’s not just Thorne Enterprises that’s at risk.
It’s Tilly, too. And my daughter doesn’t have a price. She’s all I’ve got. I swear, if Landon Winchester does anything to hurt my family, I’ll rip him apart: literally.
I start moving on instinct, fishing my cell out of my pocket.
“Harper,” I growl, pressing it to my ear. Waves of anger wash through me. The charitable side of me – the bit I exercised only a few seconds ago – suddenly feels small and shrinking fast.
“Tell me you didn’t stop digging.”
“Charlie, are you still there?”
I blink twice, staring out at the twinkling lights of nighttime New York. I’m back at the penthouse, listening to the sound of Tilly singing along to corny pop music while pretending to do her homework. I should tell her to go to bed, but right now I can’t.
I feel numb, broken by today’s events.
I’m also in Penny’s room: the room that was hers, anyway; before she started creeping into mine. I scrunch my free fist into a ball, so tight my knuckles go white.
“Say that again,” I order Harper, my lawyer: and friend. I press myself and harder against my ear.
When she speaks, Harper’s tone is soft. She really doesn’t want to hurt me. But protecting me is her job, and one I should have let her do probably the first time.
“My operative didn’t tell me this at the time,” she says. “After you ordered me to kill the investigation, I took you at your word.”
“Harper, I get it,” I growl. “I messed up. I shouldn’t have let this girl get so close.”
“We all make mistakes, Charlie,” she replies, her voice devoid of judgment. “It’s just that you’ve got a hell of a lot more to lose than most people.”
“I don’t care about the business: just Tilly. She’s all that matters. What did he find?”
“Nothing conclusive,” Harper replies in that giveaway lawyer’s tone.
My old friend likes to present open and shut cases. She likes to have every piece of evidence double, then triple-checked – and then once more – just for safety’s sake. With Penny, everything’s up in the air. As far as we can tell, she didn’t have a record before about two years ago. So Harper’s flying blind – and she hates it.
“But my man found evidence of searches from her roommate’s phone,” I hear the rustling of paper down the line. “A Roberta –”
“– It doesn’t matter who she is,” I mutter.
“Sorry. Anyway, we hacked into this girl’s phone. It was almost clean, but we scraped a few cookies, a couple of packets of data –”
I interrupt her again. “Is that legal?”
There’s a long pause on the other end of the line. “As your lawyer, I’d advise you not to ask me that question.”
“Okay, fine,” I say. “But this time only; I don’t work like that, Harper; you know that. We’re the good guys.”
“Deal: so here’s the rub; we found data that indicated this girl had been searching your name before Penny started at Thorne Enterprises. Digging deep. This isn’t just pre-job Googling, Charlie.”
The sound washes over me, like surf meeting a vicious cliff; except instead of rock, I’m burning, seething with fire. “She did what?” I growl. “You said before?”
I can hear Harper nodding. “Yeah. In my opinion, Charlie, it’s as bad as it looks. The evidence is flaky, I know that, but if it looks like corporate espionage, and smells like corporate espionage…”
“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter. “You’re right.”
There’s another pause.
“Charlie?”
“Yeah?”
“How are you holding up?”
How the hell do I answer that question: with the truth? That I’m as angry as I’ve ever been; that I want to hunt Penny down and crush her; not for breaking into my company, but for breaking my heart.
I catch myself: my heart? That’s strong for a girl I’ve known all of a couple of weeks…
I hear the click of the door opening behind me.
“Harper, I’ve got to go,” I grunt.
“Charlie –”
Then the phone’s gone from my ear.
I watch as Tilly’s reflection wanders into Penny’s old bedroom. “Hey, daddy.”
“Hey kiddo,” I say.
I scrunch my eyelids closed – tight – biting back something that’s not quite a tear. How the hell am I supposed to explain what’s happened to this kid? That I’ve let her down as a father: by bringing someone like Penny into our lives.
“What’s wrong?” She says. The reflection – all three feet nothing of it, dressed in pink polka dot pajamas – gets closer, and then hugs my leg.
“Nothing’s wrong, kid.” I ruffle her hair, smiling down. My throat’s all clenched up. Maybe I don’t need to tell her tonight – but soon. She’s a smart kid. She’ll work out that something’s wrong.
“Don’t lie to me, daddy,” she says. She tugs my arm so that I’m forced to hold her gaze. “We don’t lie, remember?”
“How can I forget with you around?” I say, dropping to one knee. “You’re a hard task master…”
I close my eyes, and rest my forehead on hers, just drinking in the moment. Tilly’s the one girl in my life who will never leave me: and the one person I need to protect more than anything else in the world. She’s bigger than me: my company; even the women I choose to bring into my life.
“So don’t, then,” she says simply.
I feel a couple of little fingers on my face, and suddenly my eyelid is being forced open, and I see Tilly’s grinning face peering in. I jerk my head backward, and pull a face.
“Hey!”
Tilly crosses her arms. She cocks her head to one side like a woman twice her age. “So?”
“Where did you catch that attitude, Tills?” I groan. I hold my tongue for a second, and then I realize I need to stop procrastinating. “Listen, kid – there’s something I need to tell you.”
She rolls her eyes. It’s hard to reconcile something so cute being in front of me when I’m so angry inside: angry at Penny’s betrayal; even angrier at my own failure.
“Is it about the merger?” She asks.
My forehead wrinkles. “How did you hear about that?”
“Come on, daddy,” she says with time-worn impatience. “It’s everywhere!”
“Fair enough,” I allow. “But no, it’s not about that. Daddy’s going to deal with smelly Landon Winchester, let me tell you that!”
“Then it has to be Penny,” Tilly says matter-of-factly.
I don’t bother trying to hide it. “How did you know?”
She has her hands on her hips this time. “Daddy, it doesn’t take an expert. You’re in her room, and your eyes are all teary. What happened? Did she dump you?”
I shake my head, I cough, and sneeze all at once – and it’s pure emotion coming out, nothing else. I lean forward and pull Tilly in for a hug. “No, kiddo, it’s –”
I bite my tongue, thinking. But my kid, who’s smarter than a dozen women three times her age, cuts that short as well.
“Don’t try and hide it from me, daddy,” she says.
“I fu–,” I catch myself.
“I screwed up, kiddo. Penny … she wasn’t a good person. She came into our family to steal from us. Maybe not money: but something; she was here to hurt us. I’m sorry I let it happen. I’m sorry she tricked me so bad. I thought she was a good person, but I was wrong. I don’t know how, but I promise you I won’t let it happen again.”
My confession is heartfelt. I feel stupid admitting all this to an eleven-year-old, but there’s no way to hide it from Tilly.
Her face scrunches up. She looks confused. And then…
“No.”
“‘No’ what?” I ask in confusion.
“No. I don’t believe it.”
I squeeze Tilly’s tiny body once again, hugging her with all my might. “I’m sorry, kiddo. It’s true.”
She breaks free of my hold.
“No, daddy, it’s not. And don’t you dare try and tell me I don’t know what I’m talking about! You did fuck up,” she says – to my open-mouthed shock. “Not just screw up. Trust me on that, daddy.”
Then she runs out of the room, leaving me angry and hurt and embarrassed and numb. I drop down to my knees, staring out at the twinkling streetlights of New York.
Whatever I’m feeling, it’s a mess. Then – still numb – I do something. I reach for my phone. I dial a number, and it goes to voicemail.
I bite my lip one last time. I can’t believe I’m about to do this – and all on the word of an eleven-year-old.
But I do it anyway.
“Harper. I want to speak to the man you had follow Penny. Don’t give me any shit about plausible deniability. Just make it happen.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Penny
The silenced TV in dad’s hospital room flickers, filling it with a ghostly blue glow. The images from Landon Winchester’s press conference are still flashing on the business segment on the nightly news. I think about asking the nurses to change the channel, but I don’t have the energy.
Besides, I’m not a virgin anymore.
Not in life, and not to Brookdale University Hospital – a place where happiness goes to die. Asking the nurses to do anything around here – even provide basic medical care – is a fool’s errand.
Carol Winters’ words echo in my mind. “There are foster homes, and then there are foster homes, Penny,” she says.
“We both know you lied about being Charlie Thorne’s wife. The State will discover the truth eventually, Ms. Walters. Make the right choice. Come clean, and I’ll place Tilly in a pleasant, safe family: somewhere on the Upper East Side, maybe. I’m sure there’s a hedge fund family out there who would jump at the chance to take the mighty Charlie Thorne’s daughter. Or don’t… and maybe I won’t be so generous.”
“I’m sorry, dad,” I whisper. “I tried. I did everything I knew how to do. I know you won’t be proud of me, not after the things I’ve done. I lied, I cheated. But it was all to help you. Or to save you –”
My voice disappears, and my throat chokes up. I kick off the heels that Charlie – no Landon – sent me, and climb up onto dad’s hospital bed. I curl up next to him.
I remember a time when the difference between my petite frame, and daddy’s strong, broad shoulders was almost comical. Now, though, after years of cancer and hospital treatments, dad’s once proud frame has almost completely withered away.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
“Maybe
I should have done it, dad,” I say. “I could have saved your life.”
But then I would have thrown away every last scrap of my honor.
Now I’ve opened the floodgates, I’ll never be able to stop. The emotion floods out of me, carrying words that jumble against each other in my depressed eagerness to come clean.
“That woman, Carol Winters,” I continue – even though my dad’s in a medically induced coma and can’t hear a damn word I say.
“She showed me her fancy Italian designer clothes, her purse – everything – thousands of dollars’ worth. She outright admitted Landon paid for them with bribes. She offered me the same. I don’t get it, dad. What happened to her? She must have been a good person, once. Who goes into social work if they don’t care? Who could threaten a child like that?”
Tears burn as they streak down my cheeks. I don’t bother wiping them aside, and they fall onto the musty hospital blanket.
“But I could have saved you, dad. If I had taken her offer – their offer. Landon, he would have paid for everything: all your treatment; whatever it took to get you better.”
I strain to open my eyes, and look at dad’s face. His hair is thinning from all the drugs, and his skin is pale and sallow. He’s hooked up to a feeding tube, as well as another dripping hydration in through the top of his hand.
I hate to see him like this, and to know that I could have done something to prevent it.
“But you wouldn’t have wanted that, would you dad?” I whisper.
The monitoring machines on a trolley by the hospital bed blink and moan, but every line stays straight and placid. I stare at them through blurred eyes, waiting for any sign that dad can understand what I’m saying – that he can hear me from somewhere inside his coma – but there’s nothing.
I’m just hoping beyond hope.
I know it’s not possible.
I swallow. My throat hurts from crying, and it shoots a pang of pain down my front. I deserve it.
“I failed you, didn’t I?”
The tears are now streaming down my cheeks in quantities large enough to soak the silk cocktail dress that still clings to my body. A digital clock mounted high on the wall shows that it’s past three in the morning.