Page 78 of Good Graces

“Hello?” A stilted pause, then, “Yeah, I’m fine. Why?”

The voice on the other end rises. It’s a little anxious, a little urgent. I can’t hear the words, but I can hear the tone.

“What?” Warren asks sharply. “What are you talking about?”

More talking. More pauses. It’s starting to unravel, I can feel it, this whole awful thing unspooling right in front of me.

“Missing money? From where?”

My stomach turns to ice. I didn’t get the chance to explain, to warn him. It’s my fault, my silence. I should have never done it, but after I made my choice, I should have clued Warren in.

“Mom,” Warren says, pacing now. His steps are tight, clipped. “What are you even asking me right now?”

I watch him pace, listen to the way his voice strains—low and tight and confused. “No,” he says. “No, I didn’t take it.” He pauses. “Why would I—?” He stops pacing, scrubs a hand down his face. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. We’ll figure it out when I get back to your place.”

I should say something. I should stop this before it spirals. I whisper his name, trying to cut in, but he keeps pacing. Keeps talking.

“I don’t know,” he says, his voice climbing. “I don’t know, Mom. I’ll talk to Daniel when I get home, okay?”

“Warren,” I say again, louder this time.

He finally turns. The confusion in his face guts me.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “It’s my fault. I ... I took it.”

The air stalls, like the world’s holding its breath. Like maybe I can still fix this.

But then his face changes. He goes rigid, his whole body braced.

He mutters something into the phone—low, clipped, unreadable—and then hangs up. His fingers stay clenched around the phone like he’s trying not to crush it.

“You’re kidding,” he says hoarsely. “Please tell me you’re fucking kidding.”

“I’m not.” My voice is barely audible. “I took it.”

He shudders. “Why?”

The truth catches in my throat. “I just—” I break off. “I don’t know. I needed it.”

“For what?” His voice cracks, sharp and furious. “For what, Quinn?”

I open my mouth, then close it again. The reason feels too small, too selfish to say out loud. It would only make this worse.

He stares at me. “You can’t even say it?”

“I can’t explain it right now,” I murmur. “Just go home. Talk to your mom. Tell them I took it, and then ...”

“And then what?” His eyes narrow. “You think that fixes this?”

“I don’t know,” I say, barely holding it together. “I don’t know.”

“I’m not gonna tell them it was you,” he says, voice low and tight. “Just give me the money back. I’ll figure something out.”

“I can’t.”

He stares at me. “Youcan’t?”

“I spent it. It’s gone.”

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