But I hadn't.Did that make me a thief?
I shook my head.No. Unlike Mom, guilt over that money would've had me delivering that box no matter what – or returning Ryder's cash.
Regardless, I owed somebody interest for keeping the bagels overnight.
And why on Earth was I thinking of bagels when my sister had been robbed – and by her own mother, too.
In a weird, twisted way, I had robbed Delaney, too – because some of that money had gone tomein the form of rent for my Chicago apartment.
With stuff like this, was it any wonder that Delaney resented me?
On the phone, Mom continued in that breezy way of hers, "I just borrowed some of it, that's all."
Borrowed?
Yeah, right.
Delaney's odds of getting paid back were even worse than my odds of seeing that three thousand again. But at least in my case, I'd had some say in the matter.
But Delaney?
She'd been robbed outright.
I reached up to rub at my eyes. "How much?"
"How much what?"
With my jaw tight, I spoke very slowly, enunciating every word. "How much did you borrow?"
"Oh, don't sound so serious," Mom said. "She had plenty left."
I was finding this hard to believe. Just last year, I had closed out my own account when I'd moved everything to a bank in Chicago. At the time, my balance had been just a few hundred – a lot of money for a grade-schooler, but not a massive fortune for a grown-up.
Now, I was doing the math in my head, trying to add everything up. Between that shopping trip to Paris and my Chicago rent, Mom must've withdrawn at least several thousand.
Trying hard to keep calm, I said, "When you say she had plenty left, how much do you mean?"
"Plenty,"Mom repeated. "I'm not a monster."
Sometimes, I wasn't so sure. "But how are you ever gonna pay her back?"
"Oh, stop worrying," she said. "It'll work out. You'll see." She brightened. "Focus on the good news. Your apartment is safe."
"But—"
"Youdorealize this call is costing me a fortune, don't you?"
By now, I hardly knew what to say. But in the end, I didn't need to say anything, because with a cheery goodbye, she ended the call.
In Maisie's kitchen, I just stood there, stupefied until my gaze strayed once again to that box of pastries. They weren't mine. But I'd kept them overnight.
Damn it.
I wasn't my mom.
I refused to be. Not now, not ever.
And for some insane reason, I felt compelled to prove it, if only to myself.
