The Millionaires - Brad Meltzer [125]
“Three hundred and thirteen million?”
I nod.
“You stole three hundred and thirteen million dollars?”
“Not on purpose—not that amount.” I expect her to scream, or slap me, or slice at my neck, but she doesn’t. She just sits there. Perfect Indian position. Perfect silence. “Gillian, I know what you’re thinking—I know it’s your money—”
“It’s not my money!”
“But your dad…”
“That money got him killed, Oliver! All it’s good for now is lining his casket.” She looks up and her eyes are filled with tears. “How could you not tell me?”
“What was I supposed to say? Hi, I’m Oliver—I just stole three hundred and thirteen million dollars of your dad’s money—want to come and get shot at? We just wanted to know if he was alive. But after meeting you… and spending time—I never meant to hurt you, Gillian—especially after all this.”
“You could’ve told me last night…”
“I wanted to—I swear.”
“Then why didn’t you?”
“I just… I knew it would hurt.”
“And you think this doesn’t?”
“Gillian, I didn’t want to lie—”
“But you did. You did,” she insists as her voice shakes.
I look away, unable to face her. “If I could do it all over, I wouldn’t do it again,” I whisper.
She sniffles at the statement, but it doesn’t do much good.
“Gillian, I swear to you—”
“It’s not even about the lie,” she cuts me off. “And it certainly isn’t about some truckload of dirty cash,” she adds, wiping her eyes with the palm of her hand. She’s still stunned, but deep down I hear the first tinge of anger. “Don’t you get it yet, Oliver? I just want to know why they killed my dad!”
As she says the words, the quiver in the back of her throat shakes me by the shoulders and once again reminds me what we’re doing here in the first place. I lift my chin and stare in the mirror. Bags under my eyes. Black hair on my head. And my brother still missing.
Please, Charlie—wherever you are—come home.
58
What’re you doing in there?” an elderly woman asked, tapping Joey on the shoulder.
“Sorry—just searching for a lost sock,” Joey replied as she backed her way out of the laundry room. Turning around in the hallway to face the woman, Joey eyed the Trash Room sign on the nearby metal door.
“Do you even live here?” the woman challenged with her plastic laundry basket and her gold-plated Medic-Alert bracelet.
“Absolutely,” Joey said, stepping around the woman and peeking her head in the trash room. Smell of rotting oranges. Trash chute in the corner. No Oliver or Charlie.
“Listen to me—I’m talking to you,” the woman threatened.
“I’m sorry,” Joey said. “It’s just that it’s my mother’s favorite sock. She made me do the laundry down here because the dryers are better on the lower floors…”
“They are better.”
“… I completely agree, but now the sock is gone, and, well… it was her favorite sock.” Rushing away from the woman, Joey pressed the button for the elevator, ran to the doors as they opened, and quickly hopped inside.
“I’ll keep an eye out for it!” the woman shouted. But before she could finish, the doors slammed shut.
“It was her favorite sock?”Noreen teased through the earpiece.
“Oh, bite yourself,” Joey said. “It got the job done.”
“Yessiree, you’ve once again outsmarted the ninety-year-old retirees in that hotbed of spydom—the Wilshire Condominium & Communist Lodge.”
“What’s your point?”
“All I’m saying is, I don’t see the use in scouring some condo—much less the third floor and its laundry room—just because Charlie and Oliver’s grandmother once lived there.”
“First of all, if grandma lived on the third floor, that’s the one they’ll know best. Second, never underestimate a laundry room as a hiding place. And third, when it comes to human behavior, there’s only one thing in the whole world that you can absolutely, unquestionably count on…”
“Habit,” Joey and Noreen said simultaneously.
“Don’t mock,” Joey warned as the elevator doors opened in the lobby. “Habit’s the only thing all human animals share. We can’t help ourselves. It’s why we drive home by the same route; and get our morning coffee from the same place; and brush our