Page 21 of Beast

He quickly surveyed my face. “Don’t give me that look, I’m fine.”

Every muscle in my body tensed. I followed him inside the house.

“You look wrecked. Why did you take my money?”

He paused, his eyes pained.

I knew that look.

“Now, Dad. Spill it.”

He remained silent. I forced myself to remain calm and not blow up at him. I headed into the kitchen to start the coffeemaker. Bills were piled near the telephone, and a few boxes were packed tightly—as if he was planning on fleeing. “Did you read an organizing book or something?”

“No.” He gazed out the window at the peek-a-boo vineyard view.

“Why are your things packed?”

“Just doing some cleaning.”

I leveled him with my eyes.

He let out a sigh. “Okay. You got me.”

Fuck. I knew that tone.

“What’s going on with you? Where the hell is my money? The truth, please.”

Beads of sweat pooled on his neck.

“I’m bankrupt. I hadn’t paid the property taxes and was behind on our mortgage so I used the money to catch up. The bank was going to foreclose on our home.”

I clenched my fist, and my vision became cloudy. “How on earth are you bankrupt? You had a six-figure advance for your last book. Didn’t you invest?”

“That book deal was five years ago. The critics loved it but it was no bestseller. I earned out my advance and that was that. I need a hit.”

I poured coffee into two mugs, debated emptying the pot on my father’s hand. My dad by no means lived an extravagant lifestyle. We had always lived within a budget, which was probably why it was easy for me to adjust back to being a starving college student after my brief time as a starlet.

But my house, our home, meant the world to me. It was more than a roof over our heads. I could still hear my mother’s voice echo down the hallway, I could still picture her tending to the garden, I could still inhale the scent of her perfumed clothes.

He continued his excuses as I struggled to remain calm.

“I’ve approached everyone I can think of to write a biography, but either they’re already working with a writer, or my agent doesn’t think we could get a big enough advance from a publisher.” His voice was choked with emotion but I refused to pity him.

My mind immediately flashed to Grady. If he wrote a war memoir, it would be a bestseller. He’d told me he had no desire to write one, but I wondered if he would ever change his mind.

“So you stole from your own daughter? I need that money for tuition. I won’t graduate. It’s my money. How fucking dare you? I can have you arrested?”

“I know, I’m sorry. My agent assured me that this celebrity would chose me to write his book, so I thought I could take the money out of the trust and deposit it back before you ever noticed. It was wrong of me and I don’t blame you if you hate me but I didn’t want to tell you. I’ll figure this out, I promise.”

I was not reassured. Rage flashed through me. “Can’t you sell the house and move somewhere else? That’ll buy you some time until you find your next subject.” The second the words left my lips, hollowness filled my core. My home. The place I’d escaped to when my face had been plastered on every tabloid in America, the community that had embraced me when everyone else turned their back on me.

“Even if I sell the home it won’t help. I’m underwater on the mortgage, and I’d need to find a new place to live. I have three months of expenses left with the money I took from you, and then I have nothing.”

Memories rushed back of picnicking with my parents at the duck pond, exploring the candy and root beer shops in quaint Old Town. My childhood was happy—I never had a clue that my mom was in such private pain. And my parents always seemed so in love. I had dreamt of having my own happy marriage one day—but now that image was shattered. My mom wasn’t content—she was miserable. If I had read her so wrong, how could I trust anyone?

“How much do you owe?”

He started speaking rapidly. “Maybe it’s best if we lose the home. Who knows how long I’ll be around anyway?”