Page 99 of Bourbon Bliss
“Yeah, I can give you my password.”
“Send it. I’ll do some digging and see what I can find.”
“Thanks, Marc.”
“Sure. Don’t panic yet. I’ll get back to you.”
While I waited to hear back from Marc, I decided to do my own digging. I almost never looked at my financial records. That was a lot of what I had Andrea do. She was more than an average assistant, and I paid her accordingly. It had always seemed so much easier to have one person who could do everything from make dinner reservations to oversee my investments. Andrea was good. She was on my team.
Wasn’t she?
I spent two days poring over tax returns and bank statements. I didn’t know what I was looking for. At first it all seemed like Greek to me. I couldn’t make heads or tails of anything. How would I know if the numbers were wrong? And more importantly, would I be able to find the cause of any discrepancies?
After a while, things started to make sense. I could see where some of the numbers were coming from—matched them to my sources of income. My football salary was straightforward. I knew what that had been, and the numbers all added up.
But when I got to the ancillary income sources, especially a few of the smaller endorsement deals, something seemed off. I had to look up the contracts to be sure, and then I had a hard time finding them. My files looked to be meticulously organized, but there were key things missing. I’d done a commercial for a car dealership a couple of years back, and I couldn’t find a record of it anywhere. And it didn’t look like it had been reported on my taxes. That wasn’t good.
My tax payments didn’t make sense either. What Andrea was reporting on my tax returns as having been paid didn’t match what had come out of my bank account each quarter. It looked like I’d been overpaying, not underpaying, at least compared to the amounts Andrea had calculated. So if that money hadn’t been going to pay my taxes, where had it gone?
I called the bank and my sense of dread grew. My tax payments were all routed through a second account—an account that didn’t have my name on it.
There was no reason for Andrea to filter my money through another account. Nogoodreason, at least.
When Marc called the next day, we compared notes. We’d both come to the same conclusion. Andrea hadn’t made a mistake on my taxes. She’d been stealing from me.
She’d underreported my income to the IRS, but still pulled the full amount of my tax payments from my bank account. We hadn’t been able to trace exactly where that money had gone, but it seemed clear that Andrea was pocketing the extra.
Marc advised me not to tell Andrea I knew the truth. He needed more time to prepare before we moved on this. He gave me a list of records and documentation to find, and we set up a meeting for the following week.
He also advised I keep the details of my predicament to myself for the time being. He didn’t want word getting back to Andrea that we were onto her—giving her time to cover her tracks, or get rid of evidence.
And I didn’t want June to know. I felt like the world’s biggest idiot for letting this happen. Just when I was getting settled—finding a new direction, a new place in the world—this had to knock me on my ass. And it was my own damn fault. I’d been acting like a spoiled athlete, letting someone else handle my shit, assuming it was fine. Assuming I could trust her.
I didn’t understand why Andrea had done this. I thought I’d been a good boss. I paid her well. Didn’t make ridiculous demands or act inappropriately with her. Was this retaliation for something? Or was she just an opportunist with a low moral code? From what Marc and I had found so far, it didn’t look like she’d been stealing for the first year she’d worked for me. The second year, there were a few numbers that looked wrong, but nothing on a large scale. Maybe she’d been testing me, seeing if I’d notice. When I hadn’t—because I just let her do her thing without checking on any of it—she’d gone further. Taken more.
I texted her to say I was going dark for a little while. I needed time to get my head together, so I wouldn’t be reachable. In reality, I didn’t trust myself to speak to her. If this all turned out to be true, she’d betrayed me. And I didn’t think I’d ever be able to forgive her.
I didn’t know if I’d be able to forgive myself, either.
32
June
Istood on the sidewalk with Cassidy, Scarlett, and Leah Mae after meeting them for Saturday brunch. All three of us stared up at the banner strung across Lake Drive. It was white with black lettering and silver and gold starbursts that were reminiscent of fireworks.
Bootleg Springs Do-Over Prom
Saturday, May 7th
“All I know is, Devlin better ask me,” Scarlett said.
“To the prom?” Cassidy asked.
“Yep,” Scarlett said. “A do-over prom for grown-ups? I’m going and he’s bringing me.”
Leah Mae looked up, shielding her eyes from the sun. “I’m so excited.”
“Why are you even worried about it, Scar?” Cassidy asked. “It’s not like he’ll ask someone else.”
