Call It What You Want(90)

“Bill Tunstall had a plan,” she continues. “It started—it started very small. And I truly think, at the time, he believed he was doing something good for his clients. He was taking on risky investments in his own name and allowing them to buy in to share the profits.”

I hold very still.

She glances at Dad. “Bill invited Dad to do the same thing. With our money. For a while, it worked out great.” She swallows. “When the markets turned a few years ago, Bill couldn’t maintain the returns he’d promised his clients. He was in a sticky position. He could have lost his license. He and Dad were best friends, so when he asked your dad to help, of course he said yes. It was supposed to be a tiny loan. A little fibbing with numbers. It was supposed to be a month and then he’d put it all back.” A tear sneaks out of her eye and she swipes it away. “He told me what he was doing, and I couldn’t sleep for weeks. I was so worried they would get caught.” Another tear. “But they didn’t. It was easy. Because they were moving money between two different firms and a separate bank, there was no paper trail. The market started going up again, and everyone was making money. The clients and us. It seemed too easy.” She has to swipe at her eyes. “It was too easy. When we had that market correction last January—you remember?”

I nod. I remember everything in Dad’s office turned hectic. Clients were losing money, and the phones were ringing off the hook.

Mom glances at Dad again. “Bill wanted Dad to cover again. To double down. Dad refused. I think the pressure was getting to be too much for him. People thought their accounts were down ten percent, but he knew they were down more than that. Most were down to nothing, but he was faking it. He cared about those people, Rob. He wanted us all to make money. With Bill in his ear promising good returns, bringing their friendship into it—I don’t think Dad considered the risk when it would all start falling apart.”

“So, what?” I say, my voice dark. “Dad was such a great guy?”

She begins crying in earnest, and to my surprise, she’s nodding. “Yes. He made some mistakes, but yes. He was a great guy, Robbie.”

I swallow hard.

“He wanted to pull the plug,” she says. “He told Bill he wanted to come clean. Your father wasn’t a dishonest man, but it got away from him. Do you understand that?”

“No.” I don’t understand any of this.

She shakes her head and puts her hand on the sofa between us. “He was going to replace all the money we’d taken. We were going to borrow against my trust. He was going to put it back, and we’d absorb the hit. He wanted Bill to do the same thing.” Another tear, but this time she swipes it away angrily. “Bill didn’t want to stop. He wanted Dad to put that trust money into their scheme. They argued, but Dad refused. He thought it was done. He told Bill he was replacing the money and getting out.”

I stare at her. “But Bill turned him in.”

“Yes. He turned him in. And Rob, he was crafty.” Her voice turns hushed. “So very crafty. He’d planned for it. He’d been ready for it. He made sure everything pointed at your father. Everything.”

I don’t know what to say.

“Rob, he couldn’t take it,” she says. “Your father—he couldn’t take it. Bill was coming out looking like the savior, while your dad was the thief. And the worst part was that I had to play along. Bill said he would keep me out of it. Otherwise we’d lose everything. I would have lost you, Rob.” She puts her hand against my cheek, and I jerk away.

That wounds her, and I don’t want to care, but I do. She presses her hand to her stomach. “I didn’t know what to do. There was no right path, Rob. Your father was going to turn on Bill, but Marjorie came here, sobbing that she would lose Connor, that we’d all be in prison. We didn’t know what to do. It was all a mess, and the press was going crazy. Everyone hated us—you remember.”

I do remember. I don’t need to remember.

Everyone still hates us.

“Your father couldn’t take it,” she says. She’s stumbling over her words now. “The night—the night he tried—the night he tried—”

“I know what night you’re talking about,” I say.

“I didn’t realize how bad it had gotten for him,” she says. “I didn’t—I didn’t know. I wish I hadn’t stormed out. I wish I hadn’t left him. I wish I hadn’t—”

She dissolves into tears again.

I sit and I wait. I wish all of those things, too. I feel no pity for her.

I’m lying to myself. I feel nothing but pity.

My throat is tight. I put a hand on her shoulder. “Mom.”

She reaches out and pulls me against her. She’s shaking with the force of her tears. “I never wanted to hurt you, Robbie. I love you. I couldn’t lose you. Not with everything else. I couldn’t lose you. I never would have left you alone to find that. Please know that. Please. Please don’t hate me.”

“I don’t hate you.” I almost choke on the words.

I hate Bill Tunstall. Now more than ever.

She speaks into my shoulder. “Bill came the day after that. He said he would make sure I was kept out of it if I could play the role of clueless wife. If I could be devastated at my husband’s actions. If I could be—be grateful to him for being such a savior to the community.”