5. Alison #4
“I don’t know.”
“No.”
I sigh. “Ryan.”
“No.”
“I can’t exactly tell Dad my secret boyfriend has forbidden it.”
“I know.”
“Then stop looking at me like I’m volunteering.”
His jaw tightens. “I’m not.”
“You are a little.”
“I’m looking at you like I want to kill him.”
“That’s different.”
“Barely.”
I tell him about Mom next. Monday. The dress comment. Her defending me so quietly Victor didn’t even understand what she’d done. The kitchen. Her asking whether Victor made me uncomfortable. Telling me she doesn’t like him touching me. Be good. Not here.
Ryan listens without typing for part of it. When I’m finished, he looks toward the end of the aisle. “Your mom’s scared.”
“Yeah.”
“But she’s doing things anyway.”
“Little things.”
“Little things count.”
I nod. “She told me Dad doesn’t need to know every time she asks someone for help.”
“That’s big for her.”
“I know.”
“Don’t push.”
“I won’t.”
“If she thinks Roman noticed—“
“I know.”
He stops. “Sorry.”
“No, you’re right.”
We stand there for a second. Then Ryan looks at his notes again. “Anything else from dinner?”
“Ashford.”
He starts typing. “Who?”
“No idea. London came up around the same time. Something needed to stay separate, and Dad mentioned not using the same account.”
“Okay. That’s everything?”
“That’s everything.”
Ryan looks over the page. I wait. Then he asks, “Has Roman mentioned Bellamy before?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Hollis?”
“Maybe.”
“Vane?”
“No.”
He nods. “What about Mercer?”
“No, but there was a Vaughn.”
His fingers stop. “What Vaughn?”
I shrug. “I don’t know.”
“When?”
“A few years ago?”
“What did he do?”
“I have no idea. Dad used to get calls from him.”
Ryan looks at me. “What? How many names like that do you know?”
I laugh. “I don’t know.”
“Define don’t know.”
“I can’t.”
“Ten?”
“Probably more.”
“Twenty?”
“Maybe?”
He lowers the phone. “Ally.”
“What?”
“How long has Roman talked business around you?”
I stare at him. “My entire life.”
Something changes in his face. “Politics?”
“Yes.”
“Money?”
“Sometimes.”
“People he works with?”
“Yes.”
“Phone calls?”
“Constantly.”
“Trips?”
“Yeah.”
Ryan goes quiet.
“What?” I ask.
“He doesn’t hide it from you.”
“No.”
“Why?”
I almost laugh. “Because he’s my father?”
“No. Why doesn’t he care if you hear it?”
Oh. That.
“Because he doesn’t think I understand,” I say. Ryan stares at me. “Dad knows I’m smart,” I explain. “School smart. Book smart. That’s different to him.”
“Different how?”
“He thinks I can memorize things. Write papers. Get good grades. But business? Politics? Money?” I shrug. “Those are real-world things.”
“Man things.” The bitterness in his voice makes me smile.
“Pretty much.”
Ryan looks down at his phone. “Hollis. Vane. Bellamy. Mercer. Ashford.”
“What?”
“Your dad thinks you can memorize things.”
“I can.”
“Yeah.” His eyes meet mine. “I think that might be his problem.”
I go still.
Ryan lifts his phone again. “Don’t try to figure out what’s important.”
“How am I supposed to know what to tell you?”
“You don’t. Tell me what you remember. We’ll figure out whether it matters afterward.”
“We?”
“Me. My dad. Arthur. The boys if we need them. Nobody does anything with it until we know what it actually is.” That’s better. Grounded.
I lean against the shelf. “Okay.”
“Think about names you’ve heard more than once.”
“There are a lot.”
“Good.”
“Why do you keep saying good when I give you terrible information?”
“Because terrible information is still information.”
I roll my eyes. Then I think. Dad’s study. Car rides. Dinner. The lake. Men standing around at parties with glasses in their hands, talking freely because the women and children nearby didn’t count.
“Carlisle,” I say.
Ryan types. “First name?”
“No idea.”
“Context?”
“Dad hates him.”
“Still talks to him?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“There you go again.”
“Keep going.”
“Aster.”
“Person?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Company?”
“Maybe.”
“What do you remember?”
“Mom and Dad fought about it.”
“When?”
“A few years ago.”
“Why?”
I close my eyes. The kitchen. Mom at the sink. Dad standing behind the island, his voice low and angry. “The money.”
Ryan waits.
“Mom asked where the Aster money came from. Dad told her she didn’t need to worry about it.”
“Then?”
“She said she didn’t want to know anymore.”
“What did Roman say?”
“That was probably best.”
Ryan types. “Anything else?”
“Geneva.”
He looks up. “What about it?”
“Dad went twice.”
“When?”
“Three years ago? Maybe.”
“Business?”
“He told Mom he was going to Washington.”
Ryan stops typing. “How do you know he went to Geneva?”
“She found the passport stamps.”
“Fuck.”
“They fought about that too.”
Ryan types it. I keep thinking. Then something old surfaces. “Victor came to the lake once.”
Ryan’s eyes snap up. “When?”
“I was fifteen. Maybe sixteen.”
“You knew him already?”
“I knew his name. He and Dad knew each other.” That bothers him. I can see it — the math running behind his eyes, fifteen, sixteen, the arrangement already two, three years old by then.
“What happened?”
“They sat outside drinking. Mom made me take Tobias down to the water.”
“Could you hear them?”
I close my eyes. Summer heat. Tobias in that bright orange life jacket Mom used to make him wear. Rocks hitting the water. Men’s voices above us. “Montreal.”
Ryan starts typing. “What about it?”
“Victor said it was getting expensive.”
“Anything else?”
“Dad said it was still cleaner than New York.”
“Cleaner how?”
“I don’t know.”
“Okay.”
I think harder. Then— “Customs.”