Dee slid her bank card under the glass barrier and said, “I’d like to withdraw all the funds from my account, please.”
This was the hard part. Waiting. Waiting to see if the bank would let her have the funds without a parent’s signature, if this trip was all for naught, or if she would walk out of this building with money enough to secure her future for just a little longer.
The woman typed away, and James murmured, “Making a withdrawal?”
“Rumpelstiltskin clause,” she replied. “I give back what he gave me, I get my heart back.”
He tilted his head. “I don’t think that’s how the Rumpelstiltskin clause is supposed to work. That’s a straight refund, not a tricksy back door.”
“Well, whatever,” said Dee. “I’m going to try.”
James smiled. “And that’s what I like about you.”
She didn’t have an answer to that, but luckily that was when the clerk turned back to her. “I’m sorry,” she began to say, and Dee’s stomach plummeted. This wasn’t going to work—she’d need a parent’s permission.
“I’m sorry, but you cannot make a withdrawal. This account no longer exists,” said the clerk. She looked sympathetic, rather than impatient. “It was emptied three years ago.”
Dee’s lips felt numb. “But—but the account was. Was mine. Only I could have…”
The clerk hit something on the computer, then looked at Dee. “Since the account was made for a minor, it required a parent’s name to be on it, as well. The account was a joint one, which means that either owner could have—”
Dee felt dizzy, as if she’d stepped up to a high ledge and looked down. The world teetered beneath her, gravity threatening to take hold at any second. Her breath caught between her teeth.
She knew who had taken the money.
And she felt something snap inside of her. It was a release, like popping a cork on a champagne bottle—something bubbled up inside of her, something she had kept tamped down for years.
Before she was aware of it, she was leaving the bank. Her legs moved of their own accord, and James was beside her, his face pinched with worry. “Dee—Dee, are you all right? You look—”
“We need to make one more stop,” she said. The anger bled into her voice, roughened her tone in a way she had never heard before.
James pulled the car keys from his pocket and didn’t ask any questions.
The drive took less than twenty minutes, but Dee drummed her fingers on the car door the whole way. She yearned to move, to speak, to do something. She was buoyed up by righteous anger; this was deserved, this was earned. She finally had a legitimate grievance to air, and her anger kept her from fear. She was just angry enough to be foolish, and she wanted to ride that for as long as she could.
Dee shoved her key into the door and stepped through. The house smelled like it always did—of the oil from her father’s work boots, cut grass, and unwashed dishes. Dee walked into the house, found her mother on the couch watching the news, and heard the distinct sounds of someone foraging in the kitchen. Her mother had a microwave dinner sitting on her lap.
“Dee?” asked Mrs. Moreno, startled. She was smiling, though, thinking this was a nice, surprise visit.
Dee ignored her. Her feet carried her through the living room, to where the kitchen and dining room connected. Sure enough, Mr. Moreno was there. He was chopping what looked like the leftovers from a rotisserie chicken; his sleeves were rolled up, revealing the corded muscles of his forearms.
“You,” said Dee.
Mr. Moreno looked up. His gaze was steady, focused.
Not a bad way to start.
“Ah,” said Mr. Moreno, also smiling. “Did you deign to grace us with your presence for dinner? I’m afraid it’s mostly leftovers—”
“You emptied my bank account.”
She threw the words out between them, like a grenade without a pin, and waited for the world to explode.
But it didn’t. For nearly ten full seconds, there was utter silence.
Mr. Moreno finished slicing through the chicken, set the knife down, and picked up a dish towel. He wiped the grease from his fingertips.
“My bank account,” said Dee. “The one Gran started for me. Where—is—my—money?”
