The Trapped Girl (Tracy Crosswhite #4)(19)

Tonight, Graham’s tie was loose and the top button of his shirt undone. He looked sweaty, like he’d run home.

“I have to get out of that place,” he said.

“What place?”

“BSBT.” He tossed his car keys on the counter that divided the living area from the kitchenette. A staircase led to the loft where I kept my bed and where the bathroom was located.

“I thought you were liking it better,” I said. “I thought the public offering was going well.”

“You would think that.” The comment stung. Graham sighed and I noticed his eyes were glassy, like he’d been crying—or drinking. “I’m drowning there. Can’t you tell?” He paced near the front door, talking without expecting a response. “It’s death by a thousand paper cuts and I’m bleeding all over my body. There’s no creativity. None. Everyone is so robotic in their thinking and actions. No one thinks outside the box. No one. And if you do, you get slapped back in line with the rest of the drones.” He shook his head, still pacing. “I can’t do it anymore. Fuck it. I won’t do it anymore.”

“What would you do?”

He stopped pacing, nodding his head the way he did when something was exciting him. Just like that his mood changed. The shadow of darkness lifted. He became animated. His eyes darted all over the room. He approached the couch and dropped to his knees. “I’ve thought about this a lot the last six months.” I smelled alcohol. “I told you that I was looking for that magic fit. You remember? Well, I think I’ve found it. I’ve been doing some research.”

“About what?” I managed to get in.

“Marijuana,” Graham said, eyes wide, his face beaming.

“What?” I had no idea what he was talking about.

He got to his feet, rubbing his palms together. “Oregon is legalizing marijuana. It’s going to be a total cash cow. I talked to some people in Seattle who said the people who get in on the ground floor are going to be making money hand over fist.”

I earmarked the page in my book and set it on the seat cushion beside me. I’d recently read about this in the newspaper. “I read an article that said that with all the medical marijuana dispensaries, it’s going to be more difficult for independent stores here, and not like Seattle.”

“Those are just the naysayers,” Graham said, sitting so close that I had to tuck my legs up under me. “Those are the drones, the people without any imagination. Trust me, I’ve been looking into this and the money is there for the making.”

“When have you been looking into it?”

“What?”

“When have you been looking into it? You’ve been working so late, and every weekend.”

His eyes went wide again, only this time it looked more like someone walking in on a surprise. “Are you listening to me? I’m telling you we have a chance to do something for ourselves, and you’re more interested in interrogating me.”

“I’m not interrogating you. I just asked—”

“Well then, at least show me a little bit of enthusiasm.” He moved toward the window but turned back to where I was sitting. “Is that too much to ask? You’re my wife. You’re supposed to support me.”

I didn’t know what to say to that so I didn’t say anything. In truth, neither of us really supported the other. Graham thought it best we keep our finances separate—separate credit cards, separate bank accounts, separate debit cards, separate phone bills, though occasionally he would ask to borrow my credit card when the law firm’s paycheck hadn’t cleared, or when we went out, because he didn’t like the way his wallet fit in the back pocket of his pants.

“I want to leave BSBT and open up a marijuana dispensary,” he said matter-of-factly.

“You want to leave now? But you’ve been working so hard and you said you were so close to being made a partner.”

He came back to his place on the couch. “That’s my point. I’m working hard . . . for them.” He reached out and took my hand. “This is a chance for me to work hard for myself . . . for us,” he added quickly. “We could do it together.”

“What do you mean?”

He squeezed my hand so hard it hurt. “I mean we could open the business together, the two of us. You could get out of that cubicle.”

But I liked my cubicle. “I like my job.”

“It’s a dead end. Do you want to die in that place? Cubicles and offices are coffins. It’s where the truly gifted go to die.”

He was leaning forward again, enough to make me pull back from the alcohol odor. “I don’t know,” I said. “The article I read said that getting licenses to open a dispensary is expensive, not to mention all the start-up costs and the overhead. And we don’t have any experience growing . . . well, anything.”

“I’ve been reading up on it too,” he said, getting up suddenly and hurrying to the front door to retrieve his leather satchel. He made his way back to the couch, sat, pulled out a manila file about three inches thick, and moved the magazines on the coffee table to spread out its contents.

“We don’t have to grow. We buy our product from distributors.”

I was amazed at the level of detail Graham had gone to. It looked like he’d put together a complete pro forma statement, including start-up and operating costs.