Trust-fund money.
That’s what I was born into. The interest my trust fund earns each day is more than most people make in a year. That doesn’t make me special. It’s not like I chose to be born into that kind of money.
I’m not that fond of trust-fund kids myself. Because they think I’m one of them, I have to endure those kids who think they are special because of where the womb dumped them. Occasionally, when stuck in their yacht clubs, private golf courses, private schools, etcetera, it’s convenient to pretend I’m one of them.
I’m not.
Nor do I feel special.
For years I watched my father treat my younger brother like crap, disappointed that he didn’t live up to the name they gave him: Bentley. That should tell you what my father is like. First, spending nearly three hundred grand for leather and steel and polished-walnut trim on one of only thirty-seven special editions of a Bentley ever produced. Second, being pretentious enough to give my brother the name of one of the world’s most exclusive production cars. And third, heaping bitterness upon my brother all his life because he wasn’t capable of living up to the name or being a showroom model that my parents could brag about to their friends.
I was in this gym because I did not want to be a trust-fund kid. This was my other identity. A place where I wasn’t seen as special because of the trust fund, where my reputation depended on my guts and my willingness to work.
Until now, I’d thought I’d kept this identity a secret from everyone in my trust-fund life.
WHO SENT YOU TO THE DETECTIVE TO LOOK INTO THE HOSPITAL FILES?
The pain in my hands was growing unbearable. That was good. When I stopped feeling pain, it would mean the burns were third-degree, searing the nerve endings so badly that they stopped functioning.
I spoke, my voice sounding harsh and scratchy to me.
“You want answers?” I said. “Unplug the curling irons.”
The pad jerked up and out of sight. The sound of the Converse shoes moving across the tiles again was a promise of relief that brought tears to my eyes.
I heard the click of the plug being pulled from the electrical outlet.
The pain in my hands didn’t end immediately. I would have needed to run cool water over my hands to relieve the agony. But it seemed like the heat was becoming less intense.
My tears ran down onto the top of my lip, and I licked away the salt.
The shoes shuffled back and reappeared outside the cubicle door. I memorized the scratch on the toe of the left shoe.
“If this is one of you two freak girls…” I said, thinking of Jo and Raven. And really, except for my brother Bentley, they were the only ones who knew I’d hired a detective to look into my father’s past. And it wasn’t Bentley on the other side of the door. The strides were too long.
So who could it be but the two of them, who knew what I’d done? I said, “This is a crappy test of loyalty. No way would anyone give up the use of their hands to prove they’re on your team.”
I heard the sound of another sheet being ripped from the pad, of the pencil scribbling on paper, and then the pad pushed over the top of the cubicle door and slid down again on the fishing line that held it.
GIVE ME THE NAMES OF THE GIRLS. THEN TELL ME WHY YOU WANT THE DETECTIVE LOOKING FOR THINGS AT THE HOSPITAL.
Naturally, I thought, if it was Jo and Raven doing this as a test, they would pretend not to know their own names. On the other hand, if it wasn’t them, it was also a logical question from the unseen stranger in the Converse shoes.
“Amber Whitmore,” I lied, thinking of a girl who sat in front of me in math class. And then of her friend. “Danielle McGowan. I hired the detective as a favor to them. I don’t know what they expected to find out. I hoped it was something horrible. I don’t like my father, and I was happy to help.”
In case it wasn’t Jo or Raven on the other side, the lie was a necessary protection for them. And for me. The only thing that wasn’t a lie was the part about my father. I detested him.
Silence greeted my answer.
The pad of paper disappeared. Rip. Scratch. The pad appeared again on the end of the fishing line. Someone didn’t even want me seeing his or her hands.
WHAT INFORMATION ARE YOU TRYING TO OBTAIN?
The truth was that I’d received an anonymous email informing me that my father had done something illegal at the hospital at the time of my brother’s birth, and that it would help my brother if I found out what.
Not that I was going to reveal this. I’d been anticipating the question and had my answer ready.
“That,” I said. “Right. They want me to harvest social-insurance numbers from the patient files.”
Same routine of disappearing and returning pad of paper.
YOU SHOULD NOT HAVE LIED.
The second trip of the scuffling shoes had been a promise of relief. Now the shoes made a third trip to the electrical outlet, and this one filled me with dread.
“We want to sell the numbers to hackers in Russia!” I said in a half shout. I was ashamed of the panic in my voice. “I used my father’s connections at the hospital to set it up!”
I held my breath, hoping to hear the shoes returning.
Instead, there was the click of the prong being inserted in the outlet. I felt the heat begin to build in the curling irons.
I threw my body as hard as I could against the duct tape that was holding me in place.
Incredibly, something gave.
It wasn’t the tape. It was the pipe I’d been taped against, moving with a creaking sound.
Again I lunged forward. Twice. Three times. On the fourth time, there was a whoosh of water as the pipe gave way with such suddenness that I banged my head against the cubicle door.
It was a pain I didn’t feel. Not when the insides of my fingers and my palms were screaming at the sun-hot pain inflicted by the curling irons.
With my hands between my knees, I jerked my wrists upward, and the cords snapped loose from the extension cord.
I swiveled to face the broken pipe and let the cold water rush down my arms and onto my hands. I held my wrists in the water for at least a minute, head turned to see if Converse would be back to kick open the cubicle door and attack.
Nothing.
The water pooled at my feet, and the agony of my hands disappeared.
Anger began to replace my fear.
I bounced my shoulder into the cubicle door. Then, when it didn’t pop open, I gave it a full body slam and burst through, rolling onto the washroom floor, where the water from the burst pipe formed a wide and shallow pool.
I was completely soaked. With the curling irons still taped to my hands.
Before I could roll over and make it onto my knees, two pairs of shoes entered my vision. With them came two voices I recognized.
“So this is what a boys’ bathroom looks like.” This from Jo. “I have to say, Raven, I’ve always wondered.”