So I played dead.
After I got discharge, I acted like nothing had happened. Back to work. Home on time. Smile plastered on.
No more divorce talk. No more New York.
I even handed over my entire paycheck without him asking.
Crane ate it up. Thought he’d finally broken me.
He needed me–his personal ATM–to keep that other family in designer shoes and birthday presents.
So he went back to playing
Perfectd,
checking on me, acting all concerned.
Meanwhile, I scraped together what little cash I’d hidden and hired a PI.
I didn’t need a smoking gun. Just information.
A week later, he slid me a folder and a stack of photos.
Miranda Sinclair. 35. Ten years younger than me.
Former intern at Crane’s company, back before he got canned.
Their son–Tyler Holloway–five years old. Kindergarten.
The report had a hospital record attached.
Miranda had chronic kidney disease. Needed expensive imported drugs just to stay alive.
12:52
You Send Your Daughter $3K Monthly-
Chapter 8
The photos were worse.
Crane at the hospital with her, swiping his card at the pharmacy counter. Looking at her like she hung the moon.
Crane pushing Tyler on a swing, grinning–actually grinning–in a way I’d never seen.
Feeding him. Taking him to arcades. Buying him hundred–dollar action figures.
Giving that boy every ounce of love he’d never given Naomi.
All funded by my money.
The money I’d bled for.
The money he’d stolen from our daughter–who was eating ramen and skipping meals on six hundred bucks a month.
Did it hurt?
I was way past hurt.
All that was left was hate.
Crane announced a “business trip.”
Packing his suitcase, whistling. “Babe, gotta head upstate for a pitch meeting. Three, four days tops. Take care of yourself while I’m gone.”
I watched him stuff a gift–wrapped Avengers toy into his bag.
The PI’s report said Tyler’s fifth birthday was in two days.
Bingo.
The second his car pulled out, I booked a flight to New York.
12:52 O
You Send Your Daughter $3K Monthly
Chapter 8
Landed at JFK. Caught a cab straight to Naomi’s campus.
I didn’t have her number anymore. So I did it the old–fashioned way.
Stakeout.
Sat outside her dorm from noon till sunset.
Watched wave after wave of college girls walk by–laughing, carefree, alive.
My heart sank with every passing hour.
Finally, just as the sun dipped, Naomi came around the corner.
She was with two friends,”
three of them cracking up about something.
She looked thin. Pale. Her hoodie was
cuffs fraying.
My heart cracked open.
I stepped in front of her.
“Naomi.”
Her smile died.
Shock. Disgust. And something else–panic.
She backed up like I’d pulled a knife.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Her voice could cut glass.
“We need to talk. Please, baby. Five minutes.”
“We have nothing to talk about.” She turned, pulling her friends with her.
12:52 O
You Send Your Daughter $3K Monthly
LIVVEEL
Chapter 8
They shot each other looks–pity, confusion, secondhand embarrassment.
Students started slowing down, staring, whispering.
“Dad already told me. You here to complain I’m getting too much money? Or are you finally here to shake me down?”
She snapped. Years of pain came roaring out.
“Six hundred dollars a month! Do you have any idea what that’s like in New York?!”
“I eat dollar–menu garbage every day! I can’t go anywhere with my friends! I haven’t bought new clothes in two years!”
“When people ask me why I’m so broke, what am I supposed to say?! That my mom’s loaded but she’s just a cheap–ass bitch who won’t help me?!”
Her voice climbed higher, breaking, sobbing.
“Why do you hate me so much?! WHAT DID I DO?!”
Everyone was staring now. Phones out. Recording.
The whispers turned into a wave of judgment crashing down on me,
12.52
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