Chapter 22 #2
One, I don’t date my friend’s leftovers. Two, he’s way too young for me (and by too young, I mean my age).
…and three, and most importantly, he’s not Lochlan.
But I stay on his good side as we embrace and then head to coffee. When I spring my huge favor on him, he’s open to giving it a shot. How hard can it be to hack into Dad’s home laptop and access his email?
“Are you sure about this, Chantal?” he asks as he hesitates outside the front door.
“Positive. C’mon.” I unlock the penthouse door and then pad into the front hall, calling out to check who’s home. “Dayna? You here? I was thinking I wanted some freshly baked brownies!”
When the housekeeper doesn’t answer, I try the next possibility.
“Dad? You home? I wanted to introduce you to my good friend Heath—he’s an investment banker for Goldman!”
Still no answer.
“The coast is clear. Let’s go.”
I grab Heath’s arm and lead him to Dad’s home office. He keeps it impeccably neat compared to how chaotic the hall closet had been.
On the walls he has framed photographs of himself with past Presidents and huge civil rights leaders and even celebrities like George Clooney. Dad’s favorite photo? The one he got with Shaq and Kobe when I was still just a baby.
Other accolades fill out the office space, such as the awards he’s won and laminated editions of the magazines and newspapers he’s been on the cover of.
It’s basically a shrine to himself and his beloved career.
I guide Heath to the desk and then motion for him to sit down. Heath nudges his round wire-framed glasses further up his nose and cracks his neck and knuckles.
“Fair warning,” he says. “It’s been years since I’ve hacked into anything. The last time was when I was at Harvard and had to sneak into a professor’s grading system to change a few scores.”
“Then it sounds like you’ve got this! I have faith in you, Heath.”
“And how does this deal with your kidnapping again?” he asks, raising a brow.
“It… um, helps heal my trauma. Okay, go ahead! Before anyone comes.”
Heath’s fingers come to the keyboard as he pauses and mumbles letters under his breath as if trying to jog his memory. Then his fingers are flying across the keys at lightning speed. Faster than I could ever type with my gel acrylics.
“How’s Simone doing, by the way?” he asks casually, eyes fixed on the screen. “The last time I saw her was at the NYPD Widow’s Charity Gala—”
“Oooh, it’s working!” I gasp in interruption. “You’ve bypassed the log-in screen. You’re amazing, Heath!”
He grins broadly, his chest slightly more puffed out. “It was nothing. I’m glad I could help.”
“Okay, now bring up his email. I want to check for a few things in his inbox.”
“Sure thing. Here you go.”
Heath scoots back from the office chair to allow for me to take his place. My heart’s thudding harder inside my chest as I lock into the moment and focus on the laptop screen.
Dad predictably has his emails organized in different folders. There’s a category for almost anything you can think of—he even organizes his spam and junk mail.
I roll my eyes as I scroll until I find the folder labeled divorce. It takes several minutes to parse through the dozens upon dozens of emails saved in the folder. Many of them are typical correspondence or simple updates about proceedings.
Then I come across a thread with his attorney, Richard Castellano, Esq. that’s titled, “Proceedings Delay Request.”
Keith,
I’ve reviewed the financial disclosures and I think we have an opportunity. If we delay the proceedings by another 60-90 days, we can significantly minimize your exposure on the settlement front. Given Gladys’s current health situation, time may work in our favor.
My stomach churns, though I keep reading.
The medical bills are a complicating factor, but I’d advise against paying them directly at this stage. Any payments made now could be construed as acknowledgment of ongoing financial responsibility. Better to let them accumulate and deal with them as part of the postmortem affairs later.
Postmortem affairs? Going by the time stamps on these emails, she wasn’t even dead yet. If I remember correctly, the doctors were saying she still had a fighting chance. I’m so disturbed I almost stop reading.
It takes what strength I have to go on. Unfortunately, it only gets worse.
Re: your question about the treatment facility, I understand your concern about wanting to keep up appearances.
Public perception is reality in your world after all, but I strongly recommend against transferring her to the Mayo Clinic program.
The costs would be substantial and, frankly, unnecessary given the prognosis.
The current facility is adequate for this final stage of her care.
Final stage of her care? As in…?
It hits me so powerfully it steals the air from my lungs. They’d already decided she was going to die. They’d already given up on her, and they were strategizing about how to spend as little money as possible while it happened.
Bottom line: if we drag this out another few months, you walk away clean.
No major settlement or ongoing support obligations, and the medical debts die with her.
I know it sounds cold, but this is the smart play.
You will also get to use the widower sympathy angle for your public persona, which works more favorably for you than the divorce label ever would.
It’s too fucking much.
I make a sound of disgust as my hand shoots out, and I slam shut the laptop. Heath, who’s been standing off to the side scrolling on his phone, takes notice and asks me what’s wrong.
But my head’s spinning, and my heart’s racing. I rise on shaking legs as I process what the hell I just read.
Dad intentionally delayed paying for Mom’s treatment. He didn’t opt to get her better care.
…he and his attorney ran out the clock.
“Chantal?” Heath says, frowning. “Are you okay?”
“You need to go,” I stammer. “Please… I just… you need to go, Heath. Thanks for your help, but I need to be alone.”
Heath blinks, taken aback by the abrupt dismissal, then he nods and mutters something about returning to Goldman Sachs.
I barely register the door clicking shut. All I can think about is Mom.
My beautiful, vibrant, loving mother, and how she deserved so much better than this. How she must’ve suffered in the end but still refused to betray Dad by telling me what was really going on with their messy divorce and her cancer treatment.
Tears mist my eyes as I release a shaky sigh and realize I can’t avoid it any longer.
I’m going to have to confront him.
It’s late in the evening when Dad finally comes home. The sun is setting, and the apartment is growing dark.
I don’t bother with lights. I sit on the sectional in the living room with a printout of the divorce attorney emails and some of the unpaid medical bills I’ve uncovered.
It’s almost eight by the time I hear the key in the lock.
The door swings open, and Dad steps inside, loosening his tie with one hand while he scrolls through his phone with the other. At first he doesn’t notice me, tossing his keys on the entryway table and shrugging off his suit jacket.
He flicks on the light and then jumps at the fact that he’s not as alone as he assumed.
“Jesus Christ!” He clutches his chest, his phone nearly slipping from his grip. “Chantal, what in the world? You scared the hell out of me.”
“I’ve been waiting for you to get home.”
His expression flickers from surprise to exasperation as his attention reverts back to his phone and he mumbles, “Have you? For what reason?”
“We need to talk.”
“It’s getting late, sweetie. It’ll have to wait until the morning—”
“Now, Dad,” I interrupt sharply. “I wasn’t asking.”
He stops in the middle of turning for the hall leading to the back end of the penthouse. He quirks a thick brow at me, his best attempt at putting on his authoritative father mask.
“Oh really?” he sneers. “Now, you’re saying? Well go ahead. Apparently we’ve switched roles. You’re the parent, and I’m the child tonight.”
I ignore the quip and stand up from the sectional, holding his gaze unblinkingly. My face is decidedly blank, kept carefully neutral so as not to give myself away.
If Dad has even an inkling what this is about, he’ll press the eject button. He’ll immediately flee like he usually does when pressed for difficult answers.
It’s part of what makes him the perfect politician.
“I organized your hallway closet,” I begin simply. “The one outside your office.”
“Yes… Dayna noticed. She told me about it. She said you did an excellent job. But, sweetheart, how many times have I told you? You don’t need to lift a finger here,” he says.
He gestures to my left arm still in its sling.
“You’re still in recovery. You should be spending your time resting and taking it easy. ”
“I found some interesting things in the closet,” I press as if he hasn’t said anything. I take a few steps toward him, and for the first time, his gaze pans lower to the items in my right hand. “They were in a box with Mom’s name on it.”
“Oh… uh, well… I did have staff box up many of her possessions. Much of it was donated. You know this, Chantal. That box must’ve slipped through the cracks—”
“Unpaid medical bills. Care to explain what these are?” I hold up the letters for him to take. “Why would Mom’s medical bills show unpaid if you were covering her treatment? You told me you were paying for the best care she could possibly have.”
He begrudgingly takes one of the letters from me and scans the page. Then he releases a scoff as if what it says and the questions I’ve asked are ridiculous.
“Chantal, this is a misunderstanding. At the time there were a few complications regarding the billing. But rest assured, I sorted it out and took care of it.”
“You did?”
“Of course. Your mother’s care was the most important thing to me.”
“You were divorcing her.”