Page 48 of Jar of Hearts
“Yes, I see that.” Harry taps on his keyboard, his eyes fixed on the computer screen for a few seconds. “But we can’t verify where this money came from.”
“Investments.”
“Legitimate investments?” Harry asks, then sighs. “Sorry. Look, ask Walt to come in with you. His house is paid. He makes great money at the hospital. He can cosign.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because he’s done enough,” Geo says, frustrated that she has to explain it. This is a far cry from the conversation she had with Harry ten years ago, when he approved her to buy her first condo. And three years after that, when she sold the condo and upgraded to a house. “And I don’t need him. I can handle this on my own.”
“You do need him. In this instance, you do. Perhaps you could rent for a while.”
Harry speaks gently, but all she can hear is his condescension. Like the guy at Verizon earlier that morning, when she went to get a cell phone. She was approved, but once he looked up her old account, he clearly recognized her name, because he smirked. It was all Geo could do not to reach across the counter and claw the look off his face. The fancy rose-gold iPhone now sitting in the pocket of her jacket was a small consolation prize, at least.
“Come back tomorrow with Walt,” Harry says. “He’s your dad. Let him help you.”
There’s no point in arguing, and there’s no point in checking with another bank. Geo shakes his outstretched hand and leaves, heading back to the parking lot where her white Range Rover is parked. Her dad stored it for her in his garage the entire time Geo was incarcerated. She presses the fob and the doors unlock with a soft beep. The luxury SUV feels ridiculous now. It’s a vehicle meant for a young, flashy executive, and Geo feels neither young nor flashy. And she sure as shit isn’t an executive anymore.
Before she can get in, a shriek comes from her left, and she freezes. She exhales when she sees it’s just a child and her mother, a few parking spots away. The toddler is crying, protesting having to get inside the car, a large Mercedes-Benz SUV. Another child is already inside the car, strapped securely, but crying because her sister is crying. The father is about to climb into the driver’s side,not making any attempt to assist with either kid, when he looks over at Geo. Their eyes lock.
Andrew.
The shock that registers on his face is almost comical—his mouth forms an O, his eyes bulge—but he’s forced to snap out of it a few seconds later when his wife screeches at him to help her. Geo gets inside her car, continuing to observe the family through her dark tinted windows.
Andrew looks… different. Geo’s former fiancéhad just turned forty-two when she was arrested, and now he’s firmly rooted in middle age. There’s a defined bald spot at the top of his pate, and he’s heavier than when she last saw him. Softer. His wife is at least fifteen years younger, dressed in yoga attire. When they finally succeed in getting the squirming toddler into the car, the wife straps on her seatbelt and yells at him. Geo can’t hear what she’s saying, but there’s no mistaking the fury on her face, and the look of resignation on his.
Geo starts her car and heads for home. She was only months away from marrying Andrew Shipp five years ago—the venue was booked, the dress on special order, the wedding invitations set to go out. If she hadn’t gone to prison, she would have been his wife. She shudders.
Living a life that isn’t meant for you is its own version of hell.
A new message on the garage door greets her when she gets home, as red and angry as the one her father washed off the day before. She parks at the curb and gets out, once again feeling like everybody in the neighborhood is watching her. The graffiti wasn’t there when she left this morning; it’s clear that whoever’s doing it knows when the house is unoccupied. It’s also clear that the vandal gives no fucks whatsoever about desecrating the house during daylight hours.
Today’s lovely sentiment?BURNINHELL.
Geo enters a four-digit code to open the garage door—her mother’s birthday—and is relieved when the door rolls up into the ceiling, taking the words with it. She needs to figure out how to use the pressure washer. She can’t let her father see this. Not again. Goddammit, she needs to get out of this neighborhood.
“They hate you, huh?”
She turns, surprised, and finds a boy just shy of being a teenager sitting on his bike at the end of the driveway.
“Who’s ‘they’?” she asks, walking back toward him.
He shrugs. He’s wearing a thin T-shirt, no jacket or hoodie, and jeans. His hair is too long and his sneakers are dirty. But his face is open, nonjudgmental, and observant.
“Whoever did it,” he says.
“Do you know who ‘they’ are?” Geo asks. “Because this is my dad’s house, and this kind of thing is upsetting to him.”
The boy shrugs again and rolls a bit closer to her. “Probably some kids at St. Martin’s. I dunno. You’re famous, though.”
“You mean infamous.”
A third shrug. It seems to be the kid’s primary form of communication. “Whatever. Did you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Kill your friend, way back when.”
