“Well, maybe we could get a drink sometime?” He’s eager. Almost like a little boy asking for a favor. It’s hard to hate him when he’s like this, but I have to remember my valid reasons to not trust this man. He is not a little boy. He’s a grown man who doesn’t take responsibility for his actions or his mistakes.
“Probably not a good idea.” Before I change my mind, I walk away from him. I resist the urge to look over my shoulder until I’m standing at the elevator. I sneak a glance. Drakos still stands in the same place I left him. He’s staring and gives me a little wave. I nod my head brusquely. Thankfully, the doors swish open. I step inside this temporary sanctuary and press my forehead against the cool wall. I stay like this until it stops on the parking garage floor.
Suddenly overtaken by emotion, I run for my car, slide into the driver’s seat, bury my head in the steering wheel, and proceed to lose my shit.
I don’t know how long I sat there and sobbed. Could’ve been minutes or an hour, but someone raps on my window. I’m startled and look up into the concerned eyes of Drakos, who’s leaning down and looking in my window.
I wipe the tears from my face, swallow back the sobs, and roll down the window.
“Did you lose something? Like your brain?” I insult him to distract from his vision of seeing me broken down.
“No, did you?”
“Why would you think that?”
“You’re upset.”
“I’m fine. Really. Just some sad news about a relative I don’t know really well.”
His brows knit together. He’s not buying what I’m selling.
“I have to go.” I abruptly roll up the window, causing him to jump back before his hand is squashed, and drive a little too fast from the parking lot.
* * *
The next day I take Noah to school and return home to lick my wounds. Gardenia will give him a ride to practice, and I’ll pick him up there. I eat half of a container of espresso walnut ice cream, drink a ton of coffee, and scroll through funny videos for an hour or two. I’m wasting time because I don’t know where to go from here. The guys play tonight, game three of the first round, and I won’t be there.
I love hockey. One of the downsides of having my press credentials revoked is not going to games. I didn’t realize until now how much I’ll miss those games. The truth is I have nothing better to do with my time than feel sorry for myself, apply for unemployment, and search for job opportunities. I shake myself out of my funk and scan the job sites. I find nothing that sounds remotely interesting, I’m qualified for, or that pays even close to what I’d been making.
Now more than ever, I must figure out what assets my sister left Noah. There must be a logical explanation for the credit card fraud. I just can’t figure out what, but my sister was financially solvent. It’s long past time I discover what her finances are, especially since I have all the time in the world on my hands.
I sit down on the floor and start going through the boxes of mail. I sort through the bulk of it, making piles of different things such as finance-related mail, bills, junk mail, and personal mail. Once the piles are made, I tackle the first pile and open envelopes. The first is a recent bank statement from a Vegas bank. I frown as I stare at the minuscule balance in savings and checking. I open another and another and another. Same story. She’s spending way more than she’s making with a lot of cash withdrawals. I turn to the stack of bills. Multiple different credit cards. All maxed out. All overdue. The charges are primarily at clothing stores, bars, and casinos. Did my perfect sister have a gambling problem? Is that what all this is about? Is that really why she left Vegas?
I don’t find any record of deposits from the university for her paychecks. There has to be another bank account that’s unaccounted for. I spend hours going over everything. I have lots of questions and no answers. The only person who can answer them is gone.
I sit back and sigh. “Anna, what were you hiding?” I say out loud, as if she can hear me.
Grabbing my phone, I search for a number for the payroll office at the university. Perhaps they can shed some light on what’s up. I know they won’t be able to give me a lot of info, but maybe enough to steer me in the right direction.
Once someone answers the phone, I explain the situation surrounding my sister’s death and how I’m trying to figure out what may have been left to my nephew, such as any life insurance via her job or any other benefits he might be eligible for. Cindy, the person on the other end, listens quietly.
“What did you say your sister’s name was?”
“Anna Lisa Reed. She was a professor in quantitative biology and bioinformatics and had been on a sabbatical when the accident occurred.”
“One moment please.”
I wait on hold for several minutes before Cindy returns to the call. “Did I hear you correctly? Anna Lisa Reed?”
“Yes.”
“Did she go by any other names?”
I’m caught off guard by this question. “No. Not that I’m aware of.”
“No one by that name has ever worked here.”
“There has to be a mistake. She earned her doctorate there, too.”
