Never Tell (Detective D.D. Warren #10)(87)

I can’t decide if I want to scream or throw things. So I settle for sitting perfectly still. I have money. Apparently, a great deal of it. And no one bothered to tell me. Forget Conrad. She just didn’t want me to know. My mother, that selfish bitch, wanted to remain in control.

I turn to Mr. Delaney. “You figured it out. Yesterday, when I asked to go to the bank, you realized I had no idea.”

He nods.

“You’re the one who confronted her.” I point at my mom. “You’re the one who ordered her to tell me. Otherwise, I’d probably still be in the dark. Because if I have money, then I have independence. And heaven forbid”—my voice grows low and forbidding—“that I be able to take care of myself and my child.”

My mother looks right at me. Takes a bite of toast.

“How much vodka do you have in that orange juice, Mom?”

“I did what I thought best. No need to be nasty about it.”

I give up on her completely. She’s never going to apologize or reconsider her actions. She doesn’t have it in her. I target Mr. Delaney instead. “How much?”

“Roughly eight million dollars.”

“Eight million dollars?”

“You can’t take it out all at once,” he warns. “There are some provisions in place. I can go over it with you later today.”

“How successful was my father?”

“Your father was brilliant,” Mr. Delaney says simply, as if that explains everything.

“But being a math genius doesn’t necessarily translate to financial gain. Lots of geniuses die poor.”

“Let me put it another way. Your father’s genius translated nicely to the expansion of computing power and a couple of Department of Defense encryption programs.”

I feel like a gaping fish again. I had no idea. My dad was just my dad. The father I loved, standing at a whiteboard, dry-erase marker in hand, muttering under his breath.

There was applied mathematics and theoretical mathematics. My father had been the theoretical kind, which my mother used to say proved he was a true genius. As if the applied kind were secretly selling out their intelligence for capital gain. But no, my father had ended up profiting. A lot.

I wondered what the applied mathematicians had thought of that. I wonder what his TAs and research assistants who probably helped develop some of the theories that then ended up being worth so much money thought of that. Let alone work that went to the Department of Defense.

I have so many things to consider. My mind feels overfull, near bursting. I’m sitting in my childhood home and yet it’s like I’ve never been here. Never truly looked at my family, never seen any of us at all.

“I have some calls to make.”

“You haven’t eaten breakfast.” My mother sulks.

I pick up the glass of green juice, which has separated into silvery green at the top, swampy green at the bottom. I chug it down. Then, just because I am feeling childish and petty and pissed off, I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.

My mother glares at me.

I turn to Mr. Delaney. “I need to speak to some of my father’s former colleagues. I want to meet with them, today, in person. Can you help me?”

“Of course.”

“You should know, the police came by yesterday. I spoke with them—”

“Told you!” my mother bursts out, eyes on fire now as she turns for Mr. Delaney. “I told you she met them without your permission!”

“As your lawyer,” Mr. Delaney begins, his voice clearly placating as he attempts to split his attention between the two of us, “I advise against talking to the police. Or, if you feel compelled, let me set it up and be in the room. My job is to protect you, Evie. I can’t do it if you won’t let me.”

“They talked to me, too. Sergeant Warren learned some things about Conrad.”

“Such as?”

“He definitely had secrets and aliases. But maybe they weren’t all bad.” I stare at my mother. “Maybe, some lies are for good.”

She sips her orange juice, which I’m now convinced is half vodka.

“I’m sure they’ll get back to me today with more information,” I continue. “Till then, I want to learn more about my father. Exactly who he trusted, what he was working on, sixteen years ago.”

Mr. Delaney doesn’t seem surprised. Following in my footsteps, he picks up his own glass of liquefied veggies and quaffs it down. “When do you want to start?”

“Right now.”

I leave the room to finish getting ready. As I exit, I can see Mr. Delaney cross to where my mother is sitting, a hard set to her face.

“She does love you,” I hear him murmur in my mother’s ear, his hand familiar upon her shoulder. “Unfortunately, neither one of you is any good at saying it.”

For a moment, I think she’s going to shut him down. Then, briefly, she reaches up, enfolds her hand around his own. They stand there, a second, two, three.

When my mother looks up again, sees me watching them, her hand falls away. She glares at me, her gaze as hard as ever, till I give up and walk away.





CHAPTER 29


    D.D.


D.D. AWOKE TO THE THUNDER of footsteps. She just had time to brace herself before the bedroom door burst open and Jack came plowing into the room, Kiko hot on his heels. Boy and dog hit the bed in a single flying leap.