“And do you want your father to remain behind bars for his crimes?”
Internally, I pout, thinking I don’t want any of this to be happening.
“No. Because he didn’t do these things.”
“Good. Now we’re getting somewhere. And by the way, I heard some scuttlebutt today that’s making me concerned. The company that the feds hired to investigate the books of your dad’s company says there’s something like $300,000 that’s unaccounted for.”
“The IRS froze all his accounts and ours. So I don’t know what that has to do with me,” I answer.
“Dear, I’m not going to ask you if you know anything about that. But I wanted you to be aware. The prosecution might question you on this if you take the stand.”
“I’m not speaking to any prosecutor about this ever.”
“You may not have a choice, Cassandra.”
I don’t know where my sass bucket attitude is coming from these days, but I answer, “If I knew anything about that do you think I’d be at college, or do you think I’d be at the condo in Ixtapa where they don’t have any jurisdiction?”
“I’m just giving you a heads up, honey.”
When I hang up, I take a deep breath and open up my texts to send a message to Herc.
But then I remember. I have a boyfriend. Isn’t he the first person I tell things to? Even private family things?
Titus did say he has to study.
So I text Herc, giving him the heads up that Arthur Gamble likely will be calling him next.
I shouldn’t be acting this way. My dad’s been through a lot. And I know he needs all the help he can get.
How can I get my head around the idea that he might have done bad things and still speak confidently about his good character?
Herc and I will have to visit Daddy in prison and find out for ourselves. It will put my doubts to rest, I’m sure of it. Then, I’ll feel more confident giving a statement about his character. Yes, he’s been a wonderful dad. But if he did these things they say? What would Momma want me to do?
First and foremost, Momma would want me to take care of myself.
As if she’s looking out for me from beyond the grave, some incredible aromas waft up from the kitchen, and I realize that some of my sisters must be home from the bars and are cooking up a late-night dinner/early breakfast.
I find Leela in the kitchen with Crosby, the two lightly bickering while making food at the stove.
“It’s your fault for not using the chain mail glove with the mandolin slicer. What a dang fool,” she drawls, hiccuping.
“Babe, you said my scars were sexy,” Crosby replies, holding his hand above his head, and pressing what looks like white gauze against a wound of some kind.
Accidents aside, the kitchen smells like heaven. Something sweet and carb-loaded is in the oven, and a gigantic cast-iron skillet simmers with sausages on the stove.
I don’t want to interrupt Leela’s scolding of her fiancé, so I slowly back out of the kitchen. As hungry as I am, I don’t want to talk about the case. Leela spots me before I can disappear, though.
“Cassandra! Where’ve you been, babe?”
Where have I been? “I-I texted you that I was more or less babysitting Titus…my friend who got in the fight?” I wince at the memory, but Leela doesn’t bat an eye. I had texted her about taking him to the hospital and hanging out to keep an eye on him, but I guess I didn’t say how long I’d be.
“Sorry, I lost track of time,” I apologize.
“No need to apologize, honey; I was just worried. How’s your friend?”
“He’s much better,” I say, smiling genuinely, thinking about my friend. My boyfriend. I’m still not used to thinking of him in those terms. “I mother-henned him to stay away with board games and whatnot. Then I stayed a little longer to ensure the idiot didn’t die in his sleep.”
Leela smiles and quickly cuts her eyes to Crosby, who purses his lips thoughtfully. The exchange of looks was so quick, but I caught it.