“Okay.”
I hung up, still staring out of the window across from me, and I didn’t know how, or why, but it became clear to me that Dylan was stealing from Roland right under his nose, and that motherfucker was using my name to do it!
Roland was prompt about his taxes. No, he didn’t check his bank statements every day—he had too much money to bother—but that’s what he had Jeff for, and Jeff reported everything to us, never missed a beat. If Jeff didn’t know something or there were items in his statements that were questionable, it meant Roland hadn’t authorized it—that someone had hacked into his accounts or that Jeff made a mistake, and Jeff never called about his mistakes. He always corrected them first before informing us. And if it involved me, he often asked me first because I could be spontaneous with his money—when I had free access to it, anyway. I liked to spend and had even donated to a couple of popular charities for Roland before . . . and Dylan knew that.
Dylan had moved in and accessed all of my and Roland’s personal belongings, our files, bank account numbers, social security numbers, passwords—everything. Roland kept all of his documents in his office, stored and locked in the bottom drawer of his filing cabinet, but the key to that cabinet was in a cup on a shelf in his office. And I was sure Dylan had seen Roland use it on more than one occasion. I stored my financial records in our bedroom closet or locked them in my shed—but it was just a shed. It could still be accessed pretty easily.
On the outside, it appeared I had authorized this. Simple charity payments made every other month, wedged between basic withdrawals, bill payments, grocery bills, and golf retreats.
But that wasn’t the case here. Roland’s own cousin had been stealing from him, and what was worse is that he used me to do it. Me, of all people!
I should have been devastated, but instead, I smiled. I’d been waiting so long to find a way to make Roland hate Dylan without bringing up the fact that we’d slept together.
I’d waited so long to get rid of him and have him out of our lives for good. I wanted him to lose Roland’s trust. Lose his money. Lose his love. The same way I had.
After all, Dylan was the one who kissed me first.
It was time to get rid of him for good.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
Things didn’t go as planned with Dylan. I fucked it up, just like I always fuck everything up. I don’t know what to do anymore. I’ve been thinking about leaving—disappearing like a fucking ghost.
I probably shouldn’t even be writing this, but I found someone in Sageburg who makes fake IDs. I’ll move to California, get a desk or retail job and find a roommate who will be willing. I’ll change my hair, my style, everything.
I can’t pack any bags—Roland will see and get suspicious—and I can’t book flights with any of the cards or he’ll figure out where I’m going.
I could ask Miley to do it for me though. I’ll reach out to her and see if she’ll do me this favor. She has to. I’ve done so much for her. It’s her turn to help me now.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
I got a text from Miley and I’ve been finding it really hard to process. All she had to say was one name and I knew exactly what was happening. Why does this have to happen now, when everything was going so smoothly for me to leave?! Oh my God . . .
My whole life is catching up to me and I know no matter how fast I run, it will continue biting me in my ass. If I don’t leave now, I’ll never be able to escape this horrid life. And I’m so scared. I’m fucking shaking. I can barely write.
I have to go now, before it’s too late.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
I flipped to the next page of the journal, after the last entry, but there were no more words. The sun was higher in the sky now, gilded rays sweeping over brown boxes and tan walls.
“What? No.” I read the last entry again. The words looked like she’d scribbled them down quickly, and there was a wrinkle on the page, as if it’d gotten wet. I ran the pad of my finger over it, wondering if she was crying while writing it.
I placed the journal down and stood, going to the bookcase, scanning it to see if there were any more journals, or books I may have missed that could’ve been journals, but there were none. This was the last one.
Turning to face the door, I blew out a breath. What the hell had happened between the time she found out about Dylan, to that final entry? Why was she afraid? Seriously. What the hell was going on?