Girls Like Us(20)

Something slipped. I don’t know when. Maybe it happened in the weeks before his death; maybe he’d been living like this for the last ten years. My father never really had company, so it’s possible that the house just slowly, quietly decayed around him. Did he not see the cracks spreading in the walls, the film building up on the windows? There’s so much dust in the air that you can see suspended particles of it floating in patches of sunlight. Piles of clutter have accumulated, too. Nothing, perhaps, that Howard would notice. But I notice. I would have thought Dad would’ve, too. The stack of old newspapers in the corner would’ve bothered him; so would the cache of unopened bills on the kitchen counter. It all feels unlike him, the man who used to make his bed so tightly each morning that sometimes I wondered if he had slept in it at all.

“Sorry about the mess,” I mumble, and hurry toward the kitchen to put the teapot on the stove. “I know it’s cold in here. I can get a fire going. The boiler’s not in the best shape.”

“The tea is just fine.”

“Take a seat wherever you like.”

Howard looks around and settles on an armchair. As I dig a box of tea out of the cabinet, he unsnaps the buckle on his briefcase. From it, he removes a stack of papers, and then another, and another. He lines them up neatly on the coffee table. Most of them are flagged in multiple places, presumably where I need to sign or initial something. For a man who died with no family, no substantial assets but for this house, and what I imagine is a clean debt record, my father sure did leave a lot of paperwork.

“You preparing for a merger over there, Howie?”

He chuckles. “Sorry. I know this looks like a lot.”

I pour two cups of tea. They are in mismatched mugs: an SCPD mug for Howard, a chipped “Kiss Me, I’m Irish” mug for me. There is no sugar, so I don’t offer any. I hope Howard likes stale English Breakfast, because that’s what he’s getting.

“Thanks,” he says. He wraps his hands around the mug and lets the steam rise toward his face.

“So. Where do I need to sign?”

Howard looks up at me and frowns. “Well, there are things we need to discuss first. Before we get to signing.”

I lean back against the couch. “All right.”

“Did you and your father discuss estate planning?”

“No.”

“His assets?”

“You mean this house?”

“Well, the house, yes. But your father’s estate was substantial.”

“Substantial? I know this land is probably worth something. But beyond that . . .” I trail off, unable to think of anything else that Dad might have owned.

“There are other assets. An offshore account, for one.”

I raise my eyebrows. “An offshore account? You mean, in the Caymans or something?”

“Yes. Cayman International Bank. I don’t know how much is in it. But right before your father died, he brought it up. He wanted to be sure you knew how to access it.”

“I’m sorry. I’m confused. I mean, he was a cop. What was he doing with money in an offshore account?”

Howie shakes his head. “He didn’t tell me and I didn’t want to know. I promised him I’d get you this.” He hands me a business card.

Justin Moran, the card reads. Senior Vice President, Cayman International Bank.

“I’m sure if you contact him, he can help you.”

I stare at the card, trying to make sense of it. I can’t imagine why my father had an offshore account. A familiar sensation seeps into my body. Dread.

My eyes shut. I’m seven again. I’m sitting in the back seat of my father’s car. Outside, police lights flash in the murky morning light. My father heated up leftover rice and beans for breakfast and my stomach is sour, heavy. My father and Dorsey are talking. Their lips are moving, their faces are pale and pinched. Something has happened, something bad. What, I don’t quite understand.

I press my tongue against the backs of my front teeth. I’m still surprised by the absence of one. The place where the root used to be is tender and raw. My tongue retracts as the metallic taste of blood fills my mouth.

“Nell?”

My eyes snap open. Howie is staring at me, his brow furrowed. “What else is there?” I ask. “Besides the account.”

Howard raises an eyebrow. He seems surprised that I don’t have more questions. “The house goes to you.”

“Fine.”

“If you want help with listing it, I can put you in touch with a broker. We’ll also need to have the contents appraised at some point.”

I gesture at the coffee table and the ancient couch beyond. “That should take all of fifteen minutes. That’s it?”

Howie coughs uncomfortably. “Were you aware that he was considering redrafting his will when he died?”

“No,” I say, a little stunned. I set my tea down on the table between us. “Meaning, he wasn’t going to leave me the house?”

“No. The house was always yours. But he took out a two-year lease on an apartment in Riverhead last summer.”

“An apartment?”

“Yes. Here’s the address.” He slides a piece of paper across the table. “He didn’t say much about it. He has a separate bank account set up, which he said covers rent, utilities, all of that. He wanted to make sure that the person who lives there can stay, even if something happened to him.”