Page 3 of The Wrong Side of the Law

I force myself to take a deep, calming breath and smile at him.

“I’m fine, Francis.” I’ve been home for less than an hour and I have to lie again. “I just need to talk to Margaret.”

“Well, Mom should be back any minute now. She had a two o’clock with Doctor Young.”

Doctor Young. It’s not his real name, but it’s what Francis and I have called her plastic surgeon since we were kids.

“Oh, isn’t that nice,” I say. It comes out as a snarl.

I think I feel a little better, though. A little reassured. Doctor Young is anything but cheap, so if there’s money left for him, then surely there’s enough of my father’s money left to pay the taxes and my tuition.

If there’s not, though… her next facelift will be more in the line of reconstructive surgery than anything else.

“Yeah,” Francis sighs, rubbing his face. “Nick and I tried to talk some sense into her about that.” My little brother’s forehead crinkles in a pensive, anxious expression as he hunts for words, but he’s all sunny smiles again at the sound of tires on the driveway outside. Francis jumps to his feet and pulls the curtain aside to peer out the window. “Mom’s home! I hope she brought food. I’m starving!”

My little brother grabs my hand and practically drags me downstairs. I’m still holding the tax collector’s letter when we reach the foyer.

Through the double glass doors, I see Margaret getting out of a white Jetta.

Mywhite Jetta. Manhattan being what it is, I leave it here at home during school.

My present for graduating with honors from University of Miami and getting accepted to law school at NYU.

The last present my father ever gave me.

Why the hell isn’t she driving her Mercedes?

I cringe as Margaret kicks the door shut.

“Ouch,” Francis says, behind me. He knows how much that car means to me. “I swear, Em, she doesn’t usually do that. She’s just got her hands full.”

And indeed, she does. She’s loaded up with a pizza box and two large bags from Saks.

Francis opens the door, and Margaret freezes as she notices my presence. It doesn’t last long—barely long enough to even notice—but it’s clear as day that my stepmother is surprised to find me here. To judge by the fist that’s clenched hard enough to start crumpling the pizza box, it’s an unpleasant surprise.

“Emily, you’re home,” she purrs, her tone at odds with the sudden heat in her eyes. “How wonderful. I wasn’t expecting you for another week.”

I don’t answer. I hope the look on my face is stony, rather than nervous or petulant.

Francis takes the pizza and vanishes in the direction of the kitchen, leaving the two of us alone.

Margaret closes in on me, her now-empty hand moving tentatively in the direction of a hug, but she stops when she notices the letter I’m still holding in my hand.

It would be hard for her not to notice it: I’m holding it directly in front of her face in a shaking hand that I don’t even remember raising.

She squints at it.

“Oh,” she says, lamely. “You found those.”

Indeed I have. I still don’t say anything.

What the hell was Margaret hoping for? That I’d get home next week to find an empty house? That she and Francis would be gone already, flown off to God knows where to start his concert tour? Would she have hidden the tax letters by then?

My stepmother cocks her head to the side, twisting her lips in what I think is supposed to be a frown. Ten years ago, her eyebrows would have raised in a displeased arch, too, but the injections keeps them locked in place these days. All pretense of being happy to see me is long gone.

“We’ve been a little tight on cash, lately,” she says.

“Is that so?” I finally break my silence, throwing a meaningful glance in the direction of the two bulging shopping bags.

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