“I know a couple, but I can always ask Liam about the rest,” I tell her, knowing bringing her here was a great idea. I want her to relax, even if it’s just for the weekend or the day. She can worry about her troubles at work on Monday when she’s back in the office. But until then, she’ll have me to distract her.
CHAPTERTWENTY-ONE
DELILAH
Staring blankly at the computer screen, I cover my mouth with my hand. How could this happen? How did I never notice? Why have I never looked into this? There are so many columns spread out on my monitor that it makes me dizzy. I snatch my phone off my desk hastily.
To: Dad
You can’t keep ignoring me forever. There are HUGE problems here. I need you to reach out. For fuck’s sake, can’t you respond and tell me something? Do you even know how bad this looks?
Frustration heats the back of my throat as I frown down into my phone screen. My unanswered texts to my father fill the right side of the screen. But there’s no reply, not even an emoji. Granted, he’d rarely ever text me with an emoji, but sometimes when he was annoyed, he’d send me the one with smoke blowing out of its nose. My palms grow hot as I toss my phone on my desk, completely unsure of what I’m going to do next.
“Fucking hell. God damnit.” My muttering floods my office, too loud to be a whisper, and I slam my hand down on my desk. I’m frustrated beyond words. This situation is just one big, hot mess. Throwing my head back, I groan and kick off my heels. I’m aggravated enough, and my ankles are killing me. Still, why is this even happening? I’m unable to keep my eyes from staring at the screen, at all these tabs with fudged numbers, the notes Haisley has left. None of it adds up, quite literally. As much as I hate to suspect it, I know deep in my bones there’s foul play.
So many columns . . . so little time. I hate spreadsheets. Knitted Hearts is going to be the death of me. The deeper I dive into this cesspool, the harder it is to breathe. My phone pings and I grab it swiftly, only for disappointment to flow through my veins. Please let it be my father. Please let it be him.
From: Keenan
How’s things going at work? Feel better?
My reply is short.
To: Keenan
Awful.
I look over at the clock on the bottom of the computer screen. Twenty minutes. I have twenty minutes to brood and muddle until my meeting. Twenty minutes to think over the last two weeks. God, this is awful, truly, it is. I sink into my chair and wish everything would just stop being so damn hard.
Who does my dad think he is, putting me in this position? The evidence piles up. The lost money. The shady way he deflects when I ask questions, and the fact he’s now ghosting me. This doesn’t look good at all. Rifling through a sheath of papers, I hold my breath as I scan the numbers. Deep down I know this isn’t going to have a good outcome, but yet I crave it.
My brief tantrum fades away while I compare what’s in my hand to what’s on my computer screen. Cupping my cheek with my palm, I prop my elbow on the desk to inhale deeply. The expense reports don’t add up. Money is being diverted, but I can’t find out where it’s going. Haisley mentioned to me how she noticed over the last two years that specific expenses have doubled and tripled, but it can’t be accurate. We’re locked in with our providers because we’re a charity. We have access to special pricing . . . so again, it doesn’t make sense. Hell, some of these expenses don’t even exist because they’re donated.
I drum my fingernails against my cheek. Sitting here, staring at all these numbers, is going to drive me nuts. Haisley can do this easily since it’s her full-time job, which is why I have her attending this meeting. My father’s reaction when I told him I wouldn’t be hiring back Penelope flashes as I blink. The way he growled and glared at me . . .
“I can’t see straight,” I mutter to myself as all the numbers begin to merge together. Slapping the paper on the desk, I scoff hard. “Slimy motherfucker.” Standing up to gather all the papers into a neat pile, I shake my head. I reach into my desk to pull out a folder, ducking in the hopes that my unease rolls off me.
But it doesn’t, of course. Because why would it? I’m onto something, and it . . . is . . . big.
Terrifying.
Millions of euros missing, terrifying.
I jump when my phone buzzes from an alarm, and I turn it off swiftly before palming the mouse. Sending the spreadsheet on my computer to the printer, I puff out my lips thoughtfully. At least worrying about the charity was a proper distraction.
My dad has plenty of reasons to ignore me since discovering Keenan and I are dating. He can hate the decision I’ve made and that’s fine. He’s allowed to have his feelings. I can handle the silent treatment because I’m better than it. The shady crap with the charity overshadows the crap my father spewed at Keenan. I still as I struggle to keep the disgusting memories at bay. Keenan and my father need to get over themselves, but mainly it’s my father who does. Rolling my eyes, I walk across my office to my printer to tap my foot impatiently as I wait for it to finish printing the spreadsheets.
Anxiety skitters up my spine as the printer spits out page after page. Spreadsheets that need to be counted. Numbers that should add up but don’t. I stare, hoping it’d make the printing go faster. But no, my wish isn’t going to be granted.
I gather up all the pages once the printer whizzes into an idle mode and stuff them into a second folder. Apprehension grips my muscles, and I rub my hands before picking up both folders to stare at them. I feel like one should say ‘TOP SECRET’ in red and bold, and all the contents should be redacted. Grabbing my pen, I mark all the pages that I printed off in the top corner and nod in grim satisfaction.
At least I can’t get them confused now. I set off going out of my office on steady knees. As much as I want to, I can’t convince myself that this meeting will set everything straight. That this is just a bad case of bad bookkeeping. That Penelope or my father didn’t know someone, somewhere, wasn’t doing their job properly.
Keenan would know what I should do, or he’d have plenty of opinions on the matter. My ears ring with the things I can hear him say. But I’d just love to see the look on my father’s face when he figures out I know enough of what’s really happening. Trump all over his lying, defrauding ass.
I’m not stupid enough to think there could be some sort of explanation. I want to hope there is, but my gut’s telling me something is up. I shut my office door behind me. I take a breath, hold it for a long second, and bluster a sigh through my lips. All I can do is just see how this goes, and maybe, hopefully, thereisa proper explanation.
Walking toward the elevator, I punch the button with my thumb and smooth my shirt, tugging down my skirt. Briefly, I wish Keenan was here to make a remark and distract me from my worries. Anxiety knots my abdomen, and I hug my folders against my chest.
