On the front it looks just like a normal ten- or a twenty-dollar bill. It has the same, scrolling black and white font surrounding a picture of an old man with a high forehead in an oval frame. I now know the man is Salmon P. Chase, and this piece of currency is legit.
“Fifteen Thousand Dollars in Gold” is printed below the portrait, and when you turn it over, the words “The United States of America, Fifteen Thousand Dollars” are printed in garish, orange-yellow ink.
Fifteen thousand dollars… backed by gold. I still don’t quite know what to do with it. I’m not sure if I can take it to a bank and turn it in for smaller bills. Not that I’d do that—today this antique note is worth far more than its face value. I’ll have to cross that bridge once I have their current addresses.
I hold it the same way I’ve done only a handful of times. It looks fake, like Monopoly money. At first, I believed it was fake. I’ve never told Zelda about it. She’s not greedy or obsessed with money. She only ever wanted us to be safe and have food to eat. I’m not greedy or obsessed with money either.
Yes, I steal, but only small things. It helps me feel calm, and these days I always return whatever I take.
In those days, when we had been struggling to survive, it was different. I remember the items I stole—onyx cufflinks, a money clip, a Rolex watch… They had balanced everything out.
Men would want to touch me, brush the back of their hands across my breast, slide their fingers along the curve of my ass… So sorry. I didn’t mean to touch you there. Their lecherous eyes said otherwise.
Only, as they would “accidentally” feel me up, I would take something from them in return. I would smile, accept their apologies, and walk away. Even.
It has been a long time since Zelda and I were on the streets hustling to stay alive. I have the most amazing husband who loves me, and who I love. Rowan makes me feel so safe, and the vital difference? I want him touching me. I want his hands on me in every way. I crave his touch. A little smile, and my body heats just thinking about it.
Those men and their dirty hands are far away in my mind. Now, standing in my opulent bedroom, I fold the wallet closed and push it to the back of my drawer. I don’t need this money. I’m a queen regent. I live in a palace.
But those girls might need it. It will make the scales even for them. It will give them calm. I only have to find them. Then I’ll divide it evenly between them, and each will get an anonymous payment in the mail. I’ll include a note explaining how I know it will never be enough, but it’s a token for damage done.
I push the door closed and smooth my hands down my Chanel dress. Calm.
* * *
Freddie waits for me in the large study across from the war room. It’s funny they actually call it that, even though Monagasco hasn’t been to war in hundreds of years. The study smells like a library and it looks just like every other room in the palace—dark wood, tall windows, heavy velvet curtains.
A massive wooden table holds a laptop and a green banker’s lamp. Freddie leans against it holding his phone. His brow is lined, and the reflection from his screen is on his glasses.
“Are you ready for me?” I pause in the doorway, clutching a manila file folder containing the index card.
He lowers the phone and stands straight. “Your majesty.” He does a little bow. “You’re right on time.”
I smile and wrinkle my nose. “We don’t really have to be so formal, you know.”
Freddie was part of the team that rescued Zelda from kidnappers. For a little while he was my own personal guard. It seems silly for him to be so stiff.
“Something about being in the palace, I guess,” he says, pushing the glasses farther up his nose.
I lean in and lower my voice. “The queen mother is always lurking around.”
That makes him smile, and that cute dimple pierces his che
ek. Freddie is a handsome guy, if a bit shy and nerdy. He steps back and slides a hand in the pocket of his dark pants.
“The king… Rowan said to give you full access to the computer systems.” I watch him circle the large table to where the laptop waits. Two chairs are positioned in front of it. “I guess I just need to know what you’re looking for.”
Joining him on the other side of the desk, I sit in the chair beside him and open the folder. “Taimaa Kurdi is six.” I take out a photograph of a girl with shiny black hair and huge brown eyes. “She talks about olives and trees. I think her parents are or must have been farmers?”
Freddie’s dark brow clutches, and he wakes the computer. “Is that all you have?”
“She came to us from Greece.”
He does a short nod, and his fingers move over the keyboard. I watch as a database appears on the screen. “Which city in Greece?”
“The volunteers think Thessaloniki.”
He continues typing, and I watch as the long list grows smaller. His eyes are trained on the screen, but I’m watching his fingers, quickly looking back and forth.