Page 23 of Brutal Lies

I nod my head in agreement, and we get into his car, leaving the physical mess behind us but not the emotional.

I tell Wyatt to drop me off on Main Street, but he argues. He’s not leaving me alone. I trust Wyatt, but a part of me wants to keep my bank balance to myself. Maybe it’s from growing up poor and constantly worrying that someone might be jealous and take my shit away. We compromise, and he says he’ll drop me off at the bank.

“It won’t take me long,” I insist.

“Take your time and text me to pick you up.” His voice is stern, and I better not dare skip out.

My plan to barge into the police station with cash in hand is short-lived when my debit card is denied at the ATM. The bank teller inside looks past me when I complain, as if I’m made of glass, and the next customer steps into my space, glaring rudely until I walk away.

A woman not much older than me approaches and asks if she can help. Her name tag reads Sofia, and she’s dressed in a cardigan and khakis with her long hair wrapped in a bun. I suppose she could explain why my account reads zero balance and follow her to a desk.

Sofia doesn’t tell me anything useful except to confirm I have no money in my account.

“But why?” I ask, “How?”

She raises her eyes off her keyboard. “Ms. Howland, you need to go speak to your father,” then under her breath, she adds, “And open a separate account at another bank in only your name.” Sofia levels me with a gaze loaded with concern. “I’ve seen this before. Next time, hide it away.”

“I hope there is a next time,” I reply, getting up but thanking her before I storm out empty-handed. My phone buzzes as I step down the walkway toward the street. It’s not Wyatt but my mother.

“Mom?” I ask, as my stomach turns to lead, “Has anything happened?”

“They’re sending me home,” her voice sounds breathy as if she’s unsure if she should be panicked. “I mean, I have a home, but I’m not sure if my treatment is completed. The finance consultant came into my room this morning after my tea and told me that my primary payment has been removed, and would I like to put another one in place? Astrid? Do you have any money?”

I swallow hard. I have two grand taped to my dresser drawer, but it won’t pay for that glam place. “Mom. Don’t be upset. Okay? I’ll go talk to Howland.”

“Yes,” she sighs in a hazy tone, “Maybe you’ll have better luck reaching him than I have.”

I end the call and curse out loud, stomping my foot on the pavement. The rude customer stares and then hurries past me as she grips onto her purse straps. Bitch. I don’t want your money. I want my money. What happened to it?

Astrid: Plans have changed. Don’t wait.

Wyatt: K. Text me in an hour.

I suck my cheeks in and tap Howland’s office number, wondering if he’s open on Saturdays. Finally, the phone picks up, and I wait anxiously for him to speak. I know someone is on the other end listening.

“Yes,” he finally says.

“We have to talk.” I start walking quickly down the street in the direction of his office. “Are you going to be there? You will talk to me?”

He sighs. “Come over then.” The call ends as if he was never there. Howland better not disappear from our lives again, not after he stirred the pot and knocked everything off balance. I march toward his office as if I am a missile seeking a target, ready to shake it all up.

Oddly, I don’t put it together until I enter his warm, comfortable office and sink down into a leather chair that feels sturdy under my weight. He knows. He knows about the fight club.

Howland doesn’t sit in the chair nearest mine. Instead he puts distance between us and sits beside his antique rolltop desk across the room. His hand lifts up a slip of paper, and he looks at it. His lips curl in distaste, and he then looks at me. I fidget and wait for him to say something first, but he stares at me, waiting for me to confess my latest sin.

“My account is frozen,” I pause, “And I don’t know why.”

He scoffs, shaking his head. “You have no idea?” he asks, tossing the slip of paper down. “You have no idea why you aren’t sitting in jail right now?”

Fuck, I’m so stupid.

He laughs as if he can hear my thoughts. “I was woken up this morning at 3 AM The police were at my door, asking if my daughter was home. I peered out at the patrol car parked at the curb, the lights flashing.” Howland pauses for a second as his smirk tightens into a scowl. “The neighbors twitched the curtains, curious to see why I had the police at my door.” The lines around his mouth relax again as he lets out a short laugh. “I have two daughters, I told them, but I knew they weren’t looking for Charlotte. They, of course, were looking for the other one.”

My shoulders tense, and I wonder if it would look odd if I text Wyatt to come back and get me. I consider it as my thumb runs along the edges of my phone in my pocket. My heart rate picks up as I sit as far back as the chair will allow me. I let out a squeak when Howland stands up.

He freezes, looking at me as a thin smile plays on his lips. “Good. I’m glad that this isn’t fun for you. Would you like to know what the police told me?”

It takes me a moment to realize he wants an answer. My throat is tight and feels as if a sound won’t pass through it, but somehow I manage to say, “Yes,” and then I quickly add, “Sir.”

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