Chapter 47 The Borrowing Bandit Strikes Again
The Borrowing Bandit Strikes Again
Tessa
My fingers flexed around the phone. "Delaney? So you saw her?"
My mom laughed like I'd just said something ridiculous. "Oh, please. You know how impetuous she is. She's probably off in Bora Bora chasing some new fad."
I felt my jaw clench. Right.
As opposed to Mom, who was off in Paris, chasing a new purse, along with shoes and dresses to match.
But that was beside the point. "But you just said she gave you the money."
"Nooooo," my mom said, drawing out the word like she was speaking to a toddler. "I said, I got it from her."
"But that's the same thing," I protested.
"Not if you have a joint account."
My insides did a silent nosedive. "What do you mean?"
"Well, you remember, don't you? I set up those accounts when you were in grade school – one for you and one for Delaney."
Of course I remembered. As I waited for her to continue, I blinked long and hard as I prayed for the best.
As a kid, that account had been where I'd stored any cash I received as gifts along with the odd windfall, like that time I spent a weekend watching Aunt Josephine's poodle. Mom had set up both accounts – mine and Delaney's – jointly under her name, too.
When we were kids, the arrangement had made sense. But now that we were adults, it suddenly seemed like a terrible idea – and not because of our ages. Rather, it was because back in grade school, Mom had been swimming in money of her own.
Now, she was drowning in debt and reaching for any lifeline possible – except apparently her lifeline led to where?
Paris.
Suddenly, I felt like screaming. But I didn't. I couldn't. Because for one thing, Maisie was sleeping just up those stairs, and the last thing I wanted was to wake her.
Looking to get some distance just in case I did scream, I stalked into the kitchen, where the first thing I saw was that ridiculous box of raisin pastries that I never delivered.
But I should've.
Now, as I stared at the box, I couldn't help but wonder if my mom and I weren't so different.
I'd been paid a hundred dollars to deliver a simple box.
But I hadn't. Did that make me a thief?
I shook my head. No. Unlike Mom, guilt over that money would've had me delivering that box no matter what – or returning Ryder's cash.
Regardless, I owed somebody interest for keeping the bagels overnight.
And why on Earth was I thinking of bagels when my sister had been robbed – and by her own mother, too.
In a weird, twisted way, I had robbed Delaney, too – because some of that money had gone to me in the form of rent for my Chicago apartment.
With stuff like this, was it any wonder that Delaney resented me?
On the phone, Mom continued in that breezy way of hers, "I just borrowed some of it, that's all."
Borrowed?
Yeah, right.
Delaney's odds of getting paid back were even worse than my odds of seeing that three thousand again. But at least in my case, I'd had some say in the matter.
But Delaney?
She'd been robbed outright.
I reached up to rub at my eyes. "How much?"
"How much what?"
With my jaw tight, I spoke very slowly, enunciating every word. "How much did you borrow?"
"Oh, don't sound so serious," Mom said. "She had plenty left."
I was finding this hard to believe. Just last year, I had closed out my own account when I'd moved everything to a bank in Chicago. At the time, my balance had been just a few hundred – a lot of money for a grade-schooler, but not a massive fortune for a grown-up.
Now, I was doing the math in my head, trying to add everything up. Between that shopping trip to Paris and my Chicago rent, Mom must've withdrawn at least several thousand.
Trying hard to keep calm, I said, "When you say she had plenty left, how much do you mean?"
"Plenty," Mom repeated. "I'm not a monster."
Sometimes, I wasn't so sure. "But how are you ever gonna pay her back?"
"Oh, stop worrying," she said. "It'll work out. You'll see." She brightened. "Focus on the good news. Your apartment is safe."
"But—"
"You do realize this call is costing me a fortune, don't you?"
By now, I hardly knew what to say. But in the end, I didn't need to say anything, because with a cheery goodbye, she ended the call.
In Maisie's kitchen, I just stood there, stupefied until my gaze strayed once again to that box of pastries. They weren't mine. But I'd kept them overnight.
Damn it.
I wasn't my mom.
I refused to be. Not now, not ever.
And for some insane reason, I felt compelled to prove it, if only to myself.
Tomorrow, I vowed, I'd make sure Griff got that delivery – and with interest, too.