Page 50 of Denying Davis
One we were both alone, my grandad turned back to me. “What have I told you so many times? As an Armstrong, you must be careful. This must be paramount. You can’t afford to do things the way everyone else does them. Is that understood?”
“I’ve heard it myentirelife.”
I clenched my teeth. God, I was so fucking tired of being Davis Armstrong III, a person who had everything except the chance to take control of his own destiny. My whole life had been spent playing the part my family wanted, first for my father, and now for my grandfather. Finally, I’d done something for myself—I’d reconnected with the only woman who ever meant anything to me. I’d be damned if I’d let him take that away.
“You don’t have to remind me.”
“Obviously, I do.” His jaw hardened, and he narrowed his eyes. “As did the emergency meeting I had with Gregory this morning. He had a fewinterestingthings he wanted me to see.”
My stomach flipped at the implication. “Like what?”
“Like the three quarters of a million that went missing from a certain bank account.” He stepped closer to me. “What do you know about that?”
The drive home was a fog. A blur. Forgettable, and thankfully—quick. When I got to the apartment, I pulled into my usual parking spot and shuffled to the mailbox. My mind, though, was still in Palm Beach, at the mansion where I’d spent my childhood as the housekeeper’s daughter. So much about life had changed in the span of a few weeks, and yet, nothing had really changed at all.
I opened the mailbox located in long row a few hundred feet from our apartment. This was the first in a series of chores I needed to complete before heading to the hospital to check on my mom. Mail needed to be sorted. Laundry folded. Dishes washed. The bathroom cleaned.
I took the stack of mail from the box and sorted through it as I walked toward the apartment. We never got much of anything except coupon mailers, catalogs for clothing and home goods we couldn’t afford, bank statements, and bills.
My heart pounded faster as I realized the latest bill for my mother’s care had arrived that morning. We got them every month, and it had a familiar return address stamped across the envelope. The dreadful thickness of it also told me it probably contained an itemized list of her latest medical needs, along with a notice about how few of them insurance would pay.
I waited until I was inside the apartment and seated on the couch before I opened the thick white envelope.
The insurance company had processed her medical needs from the previous month, but this time, the provider had denied all the costs and demanded immediate payment, along with a few lines saying they no longer covered certain expenses as outlined in the updated term and conditions. Lines of mumbo jumbo I had overlooked when we renewed our insurance a few months earlier. Our estimated immediate costs were at the bottom of the letter in a small box circled in red.
$24,345.63.
Shit. Shit.Shit.
This was all my fault. I tossed the notice on the coffee table and dropped my head into my hands. The estimation was much more than I had calculated, and things would only get worse once Mom finished fighting pneumonia. I didn’t want to guess how much that would add to these costs. It was my responsibility to handle this issue, tomake surethat we had decent insurance, and I’d failed.
We are so screwed. We will never get out of this.
I raised my head. Except, maybe we could. Hadn’t Davis offered me a major bailout? Hadn’t he tried to give me a sum of money that would have paid for most of Mom’s medical needs, and then some? A gift he said came with no strings, from the goodness of his heart?
But who does that anymore? Surely, I’m imagining this.
I got up from the couch and rushed over to the kitchen counter where I kept most of our important documents. I’d placed his folder there, certain it wouldn’t do more than collect dust.
I’d never open it if this wasn’t so devastating. But what am I supposed to do? Let Mom die?
Oh God. I couldn’t believe they denied the payments…I opened the packet and scanned the documents, looking for any kind of major red flags. Yes, Davis was right, the account didn’t come with any hidden agenda. If I claimed it, the balance would be mine to do with as I pleased. I could make withdrawals or deposits at any Chase Bank location. As for any taxable liabilities from the transfer, Davis had included a written note saying he’d pay for those.
It was as gift. Simply a gift.
I studied the paperwork for a few more minutes. I might have refused the money on the first offer, but I didn’t see any way I could refuse it now. Not when I had no other way to pay the tsunami of other bills I knew would soon swamp my doorstep.
The answer was clear.
I located my cell phone in the bottom of my purse and was about to dial Davis’s number.He’s with his grandfather, so he wouldn’t probably take my call now.God, I had to do this. Had to take a leap of faith. I dialed the number circled on the last page of the documents.
“My name is Samantha Green,” I said when a woman identifying herself as a Chase Private Client employee answered the phone. “And I’m calling about account number two three four six seven.”
“Of course,” the woman replied. “We’ve been waiting for you.”
There were moments in life I would always remember. Standing in my grandfather’s office, I knew this would be one of them. And that fact broke my heart.
“Say that again,” I said, struggling to keep my voice even and my tone controlled. “I don’t think I’d heard you correctly.”
