Page 110 of Ten Beach Road

“That wasn’t intentional, Nik. I moved everything offshore and spread it between the different accounts. I know exactly how much is yours. Once you start making withdrawals for me your balance comes right off the top.”

“You left me high and dry. No warning, no apology, nothing to live on. You weren’t the only one who made a vow to succeed as a child, Malcolm. I lost my business, my reputation, the clothes off my back . . . everything.”

“But I . . .”

“You didn’t care who you stole from,” she said, thinking of Grace’s foster children and the other charities he’d bankrupted. “Or the lives you destroyed in the process.” She pictured Madeline and her family, the husband who’d lost himself along with his job and their money. “I don’t know how you live with yourself. You may be living in the forest, Malcolm, but you’re no Robin Hood.” She narrowed her gaze, the better to see beyond the much-loved façade. “I’m ashamed of you. You’re greedy and selfish and I suppose some of that is my fault. There is no justification for what you’ve done.”

He blinked in surprise as comprehension dawned. “You’re not going to help me get to my money.” His tone was incredulous.

“It’s not your money, Malcolm. It never was. But I am going to help you.”

A slow smile of relief began to form on his lips.

“I’m going to help you turn yourself in.”

The smile disappeared. He shook his head. “Not likely, Sis. If you’re not on my side, you can just turn around and get the hell out of here.”

“I am on your side, though I hardly understand why anymore. If you turn yourself in and hand over the account numbers, they’re bound to go easier on you. You’ll do some jail time and then . . .”

He stood and looked wildly around. “What have you done? Who have you been talking to?” he asked.

“I haven’t been talking to anyone,” she said, trying to maintain her calm. “But the FBI’s been talking to me. And I don’t know if you’ve seen the papers lately, but they’re not the only ones who know I’m your sister.”

“Jesus, Nik.” He strode to the tent and reached inside, never taking his gaze off of her or the path behind her. When he stood he was holding a gun. “I can’t fucking believe this. Where are they? Where the fuck are they hiding?”

“I didn’t bring anybody,” she said, her eyes on the gun. “I went out of my way to make sure of it.” She stood and took a step toward him. “But I have a phone number.” She thought about Giraldi and almost wished he were here.

“You are fucking crazy if you think I’m going to do that. I’m not going to jail, and I’m not ever going to be a poor nobody again.” He waved the gun around for emphasis and she hoped to hell he had the safety on. This probably wasn’t the time to call him on his overuse of the f-word.

“No, you’ll be that thief Malcolm Dyer who came out of the gutter and stole three hundred million dollars that didn’t belong to him,” she said. “And you’ll spend the rest of your life hiding and on the run.”

“But once I access my accounts, I’ll be hiding and running in style,” he said. “There are all kinds of places to get lost in if you have enough money. And I do, finally.”

“It’s not yours, Malcolm. You need to make things right. Give it back to the people it belongs to.” Like Grace’s foster children. And the Singers and even the hotheaded Avery.

He shook his head, unwilling even to consider the idea. “I’m not giving back a dime, Nik. And I’m definitely not going to jail and coming out with nothing.” His body went very still. His gaze skittered away. “Did you hear that?”

She listened intently for a moment, but heard nothing. This was not going at all as she’d hoped; she simply wasn’t getting through. “It’s just you and me, Malcolm,” she said. “Just like it always was. I know why you picked this place and this date. It was a great Thanksgiving we had here. Almost like the real thing.” She took a step closer, desperate to convince him. “Do you really think Mom or Dad would approve of what you’ve done, what you’re doing now? They were poor and uneducated, and they had their weaknesses. But they weren’t dishonest, Malcolm; they didn’t steal.”

“I’m not going to be broke, Nikki. I can’t survive in prison or anywhere else without something, some kind of nest egg, to come back to.”

Nicole moved another step closer. She understood the fear and dread of poverty that drove him like no one else ever would; they’d been her most powerful motivators, too. She’d come prepared to overcome his dread, even as she’d prayed that no inducement other than a rekindled conscience would be necessary. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out a piece of paper and unfolded it, handing it to her brother. “I’ve signed over my third of Ten Beach Road to you. It could be worth up to a million and a half dollars if we get anywhere near the listing price. This can be your nest egg.”

He eyed her and the piece of paper with suspicion. “You’d give me everything you have left to get me to turn myself in?”

She hesitated, feeling queasy, but hopeful, too, as she watched him read the printed document, which she’d signed and had notarized at a small UPS Store in Georgia. She already missed Maddie and Avery and Kyra, and the friendship that had enfolded and buoyed her. Anything that would allow them to get back even part of what had been stolen would be worthwhile. “Yep,” she said. “I guess it’s my way of apologizing for doing such a half-assed job of parenting.”

He grimaced at the insult but didn’t argue. Nor did he give the paper back. She watched him fold it one-handed and stuff it into his jean pocket. “Thanks. You see, I always have been able to count on you. You and that mile-wide soft spot of yours.”

That was when Nicole finally got it. That moment in which she was forced to acknowledge that Malcolm would take the last thing she owned, her very last penny, and not blink an eye. Because he thought he was entitled to it and because nothing else mattered to him—not her love, or her sacrifices, not even their shared past. All of the things she’d cherished didn’t even exist for him.

“So you’ll turn yourself in?” she asked, watching his face carefully, already knowing the answer but not wanting to believe.

He didn’t even pretend to think about it. “I get that you can’t try to access the offshore accounts if they’re aware of you,” he said. “But I’m going to need some money before I can, um, even consider turning myself in. And there is one account you should be able to access without arousing suspicion.”

“Oh?”

“There’s an account that I kept in Mom’s name. It was just something I played with when I was first starting out back in the eighties. It’s got Google and Apple shares, more solid slow growers than I could have put my clients who were looking for high returns into. But it’s built beautifully over the years. I was her executor. She left it to you. I, um, had someone take care of a signature card. And it was established way before my, um, difficulties.”

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