Page 2 of Caged
“Kieren,” he says in acknowledgement.
“Father,” I say back.
I saunter back to my chair, crossing my legs like a therapist ready to conduct a session with my most detested patient. “Explain.”
The old man says nothing.
“Father,” I growl in frustration, “explain why Mom found you unresponsive on the floor of your office three weeks ago. What did you do?”
He shifts uncomfortably as I pin him with my glare.
“Speak, Father. This is my fucking company too. What happened?”
I watch his throat strain to swallow.
“The Southeast Asia strategy didn’t perform as expected,” he croaks. His voice is hoarse from weeks of disuse. I could offer him water, but I won’t, he doesn’t deserve it. “And it was a large part of our investment portfolio.”
“How large?” I press.
“Half.”
I jerk my head, certain I misheard. “Half?! And the money is…” I let my question trail off because I want to hear the fucker say it out loud.
“Gone,” he states, confirming my suspicion.
My fingers flex and relax, over and over. Rage boils under my skin.
“Gone?” I sneer, pure wrath flooding my nervous system.
“Gone?!” I scream. “And just how the fuck do you plan to get back one and half billion dollars? It’s impossible! If any of our clients get wind of this and want to pull their money… We’ll have to declare bankruptcy. Our family’s name,my name, will be ruined.”
My thoughts spiral as I scramble to think of solutions. “Stop taking a management fee. Sell the house. Blame the downgrade on empty-nester syndrome now that I’m gone.”
“No,” he garbles. “We aren’t going to do anything rash that will draw attention.”
“Rash? You don’t consider trying to take your own liferash?You were going to take the easy way out and let me deal with the fallout. You couldn’t even kill yourself properly!”
“Fucking pathetic,” I mumble. “What’s your plan now, Father, since plan A clearly failed?”
“An opportunity has presented itself,” he says.
“Oh, is that right?” I laugh. “Let me guess, another one of your Ponzi schemes? We can’t get that amount of money back. You do understand that, right? We’d have to invest all the remaining funds, and even then, we would need to find investments that have the potential to return over one hundred percent to earn back the money lost and the gains you’ve reportedin writingto all of our clients. Investments like this don’t exist unless there is serious risk involved, or you’re part of the fucking mob.”
I scoff, realizing his intentions. “I always knew you’d turn out to be criminal, dragging our family name down with you.”
“I’m not talking about the fucking mob,” he sneers, spittle spraying from his pale, cracked lips. “Get me a pen and paper,” he demands.
“Why? You plan to scribble out this ingenious plan of yours like a fucking toddler?”
“Watch. Your. Tone. If I wasn’t bedridden, boy, you’d be black and blue.”
It’s not the first time my old man has threatened me physically, and both of us know how such a threat would end. Part of me wishes he would finally find the balls and try. The urge to strangle him grows overwhelming, but if I kill him, our family would have to declare bankruptcy. We’d never recover.I’d never recover.The stench of scandal would plague me and whatever offspring I decide to have for centuries, and I simply don’t have that kind of time or patience.
Begrudgingly, I appease the bastard, finding a basic ballpoint pen and small notepad on his bedside table. The notepad fittingly has the letters “H – W – M” for Hunt Wealth Management printed in embossed, gold cursive on the top of each note.
I hold the two items in front of his face, and my father has the audacity to pretend that lifting his arms to take them is a strain. He writes a barely legible email address, his handwriting taking up the entire expanse of the paper:[email protected].
“What is this?” I ridicule.
