“I’ll cover it,” he says. “I can use my Venmo.”
“No, it’s my idea, my treat.” I wave him off. I know there’s a credit card in my dad’s office. Emergency use only. But a bunch of hungry hockey players is definitely an emergency.
I head down the hallway and push the unlocked door open. My dad wouldn’t care that I’m in here as he’s never been much of a secret keeper. He just hates messes and likes everything exactly how he likes it. So I barely touch anything except for the top drawer.
It's mostly empty, except for some pens and a highlighter.
I try a side drawer, lifting the top folders, fanning through them a bit. Receipts. Not what I’m looking for.
Sighing, I move to the third drawer. Bingo. Well, almost. Still no credit card, but there’s a manila envelope on top of old serviceinvoices. This looks like a bill drawer, and where there are bills, there are payment methods.
I flip the folder open, and my brows draw together in an instant.
Inside is a copy of a receipt from the body shop that fixed my car last spring. My stomach tightens.
I never told my parents about that accident.
Initially, I figured I'd have to tell them. I knew my dad would still find a way to make it all my fault, even though it wasn’t. But when Bill got my car into the shop that very day, and it was fixed within twenty-four hours, I took it as a sign that I didn’t need to worry them. My parents never even saw the dent.
So how do they have a receipt for this when I never got one? And why?
My heart revs up as I dig deeper, pushing papers around. That’s when I see the name on the next folder.
Koren Roberts.
Her name is typed on the top like she’s on my dad’s payroll.
I stare for a full five seconds before opening it.
The first thing inside is a copy of a glowing, pages-long recommendation letter from my mom to the school Koren attended in Paris. My mom said she wrote this for her. That’s all fine and dandy.
My breath catches when I see the next document.
A donation form.
Pledged from my parents’ charitable trust directly to the university and on the condition that they award Koren a full-ride scholarship.
My hands go cold.
That internship was the reason she left. The thing that tore us apart. I thought it was fate, but this is interesting.
This isn’t fate.
This is my parents bribing the school to take her.
My knees get weak and my heart pounds. I drop into the chair, staring at the paper that makes me feel like the last year of my life was written by someone else. My parents are generous. I would have been okay with them helping her, because it would have been helping me. But why didn’t I know about the money? That seems sus.
I keep digging, half-numb, fingers moving like they’re not mine.
Receipts.
Names I don’t recognize, but something in me says not to overlook them.
I quickly type one into Google on my phone.
PR consultants. It looks like they run a sports gossip blog.
Why would my parents be payingmedia people?
