39. Iris Half-Day
Iris Half-Day
“So, where exactly are we going?” Merit asked.
“Do you know where my dad’s office is? Beside Trader Joe’s?”
Merit eyed me. “Is this just a ploy to get you that weird flavored popcorn you like?”
“It isn’t weird!” I protested. “And if I didn’t know you were gay, I would think that remembering that little tidbit meant you loved me.”
As we neared my dad’s office, I said, “Go around the back so no one will see us.” When we did, I immediately recognized the car parked there—and the man inside it.
Oliver rolled his window down, giving me a scolding look. I tried not to look sheepish in return. “Hey, Oliver,” I said casually. “Just doing a Trader Joe’s run.”
“Uh-huh,” he said. “You know you can’t go in there. There isn’t anything important left inside anyway.”
I sighed. “I know. I know . I just keep thinking that if I can get in there and look around, I could find something .” I paused. “Wait. If we can’t go in, what are you doing here?”
He smiled. “I keep thinking the same thing you’re thinking—even though I well know that illegally obtained evidence is inadmissible in court.”
I did not know that.
Oliver looked around. “Hey, Iris. I wanted to tell your mom that I got your locks changed, but I can’t get her on the phone.”
I eyed him. “Wait. Our locks changed? So, does that mean we can go home?” I felt excitement rising into my throat.
“Oh, um,” Oliver stuttered. I could see him realizing that he’d stepped in something. I just wasn’t quite sure what it was.
“Oliver…”
“Well, technically, yes, but I don’t think I was supposed to—”
I let out a Sophie-level squeal. That was actually a new term around school. I jumped out of the car and hugged Oliver as best I could through the window. “You are my favorite person in the entire world!”
He patted himself on the back. “I know. I know.”
“So I can go, like, now?”
Oliver looked at me sternly. “Iris, you may not go without your mother. Do you understand me? She gets to make the decision about when you go home.”
“But—” I started to protest.
Oliver looked at the clock on his dash. “It’s eleven forty-five. Shouldn’t you two be in school?”
“Half-day,” Merit and I said simultaneously.
Oliver made a skeptical grunting sound.
“Thank you, Oliver! I’m so excited!”
I got back in the car, and Merit muttered, “So, I assume we aren’t going to tell your mom, but that we are going to your house right now.”
I patted his shoulder and whispered, “It’s like we have one mind.”
Merit sighed. “Well, on the bright side, there’s very little chance I’ll be arrested.”
“Never say never,” I said. “The day is young.”
Walking into my own house—with my own key instead of breaking in through the window—was like Christmas Day and getting invited to prom by a senior and the day the little crispy chocolate Cadbury eggs hit the drugstores all at once. Merit and I stood in the entrance hall, staring through the paneled living room and dining room and all the way to the beach. I inhaled deeply. So, no, it didn’t smell like my house after being closed up for so long. But it was my house. I was home. I tried not to let the thought of what Alice had said at dinner last night ruin my moment. And I really tried to block out the thought that some creepy potential convict slash murderer had been in here. Even still, I shivered.
“You okay?” Merit asked.
I nodded, but I was kind of lying. I was scared. Did I even want to live here now?
“Glad they changed the locks,” I said.
Merit was really still. He seemed scared too, which bugged me. I needed him to be my rock. “Can we go back to school now?” he whispered.
“No,” I whispered back. I walked up the stairs, into my dad’s office.
The lone broker’s statement that the man in the mask had dropped that night was still sitting on the edge of the desk. I picked it up, and my heart started pounding in my chest. Dad had mentioned Artemis, Mallick, and Capstone. And this statement, my statement, here in my hand, was from the Capstone Fund. That had to mean something.
I walked with purpose toward my room and opened the drawer on the side of my desk that—much to my relief—still contained four file folders. One was marked Report Cards , one said Iris Statements, the third was Homecoming Looks, and the last said Vision Board . That was for the things I cut out from magazines that inspired me and saved to put on my huge corkboard over my desk when I had time in my very busy schedule.
The folder that I was most interested in was the statements one. Dad gave me my broker statement and my personal statement every single month, and part of our deal was that I had to go through them to see where my money was going and get a feel for his end of the job. I might or might not have followed through on my end of the bargain. Which was why I put the statements I hadn’t actually looked at in the Homecoming Looks folder, and only kept the ones I’d reviewed and highlighted in Iris Statements . I didn’t think Dad would ever look, but better safe than sorry. Free money was amazing, and I didn’t want to stop the gravy train.
“What are we doing?” Merit asked.
The Iris Statements folder was empty. “Oh my gosh,” I said. “It’s empty! That guy, whoever he was, was stealing my statements!”
“What guy?”
I felt too crazed to answer. Lucky for me—and unlucky for the burglar—most of the good stuff wasn’t filed in the right place anyway.
“Here,” I said, handing Merit a stack of personal statements from my Homecoming Looks folder. “See if you can find any from the Capstone Fund.”
He sat down on my bed. “Yeah. Here’s one.”
“Put them in a separate pile.”
He rolled his eyes and sighed, and I got to work on the broker’s statements, sorting on my end too.
“Okay,” I said. “So, like, on my July statement, what is the total for the Capstone Fund?”
“It says $716.25.”
I looked down at the broker’s statement from July. “Damn,” I said, “$716.25.”
“Why ‘damn’? What are we looking for?”
“Um. I have no idea.”
We both burst out laughing.
“Okay,” he said, “here’s June.” I found my corresponding June statement as Merit said, “Fifteen shares, $723.15.”
I stopped and looked up at him. “Wait. What did you say?”
“Fifteen shares, $723.15.”
I looked down at the paper in my hand. “The broker’s statement says 12.75 shares at $723.15.”
“Okay,” he said. “A typo maybe?”
I couldn’t answer him. My mind was holding on to all these different thoughts and remembering my dad saying that some of the Capstone Fund’s statements were off. Something was happening here. I just wasn’t sure what it was yet.
“Look at, like, December of last year.”
He rifled through his papers, and I rifled through mine.
“Ten shares at $436.70,” he said.
I gasped and looked up at him. “Mine says 8.5 shares at $436.70.”
“So what does that mean?” he asked.
I still didn’t know. I motioned at him. “I don’t have my phone. I need yours!” I did a quick Google search of the correct price per share of the Capstone Fund from June, and from December. Then I started talking out loud. “Okay. So, basically, what is coming on the investor statements from the Capstone Fund is correct. The share price and the share number reflect each other. But on the broker-facing side, the total is the same, but the number of shares is… well, it’s less.” I gasped again. “That’s why that guy was stealing my statements!”
I felt wild and panicked and thrilled all at once. “You have to take me back to the mommune to get my phone. I have to get Oliver.”
Merit nodded and gripped my forearm. “Iris, I don’t totally understand what’s happening here, but you have to calm down a little—or at least explain it to me.”
“The Capstone Fund was the one forging client statements, not my dad. And I’m pretty sure I just proved it.”