Complicated Parts Read online

  “And Europe—” I start to say, recalling the summer vacation with friends Becca told me she was going on.

  “Is where I proposed to her. Right in front of the fucking Eiffel Tower.” The tears start falling down her face again and she turns her head toward the water. “With my mom's engagement ring.”

  “Well, at least you can give it back to her now.”

  She flinches, and I realize I've somehow managed to offend her.

  Usually, I'm on top of my game. Being a gambler, I analyze every detail and subtle expression on a person's face—all the things their body gives away without words—which in turn allows me to read them like a book. Thus, enabling me to see the proverbial cards they're holding.

  But with this girl? I don't even need to decode anything; she's as candid as it gets. Her emotions are all laid out for the world to see and I can't decide if I find it refreshing or baneful.

  “That would be kind of hard,” she whispers. “Not only because Becca probably pawned it by now, but both my mom and dad died in this river when I was eight.”

  Talk about a punch to the gut. “Shit—”

  “Spare me,” she says, but there's no bitterness in her tone. Only sorrow. “Your apology won't bring them back.”

  “I wasn't going to apologize. Their death wasn't my fault.” I follow her gaze to the water. “I was going to say that it sucks.”

  For the first time since we've been talking, she gives me a look I can't decipher. “Yeah, it does.”

  Deciding to get more comfortable, I sit on the hood of my own car. “Mind if I ask how they died?”

  “Something tells me that even if I said I did mind, you wouldn't give a shit and you'd ask anyway.”

  I shrug. Her assessment isn't wrong.

  Her eyes drift back to the water. “They were celebrating their ten-year wedding anniversary by going to the Caribbean. The weather was bad, but the new pilot they hired assured them there would only be a bit of turbulence and the rest of the flight would be smooth. A couple of minutes after takeoff, however, their plane crashed into this river.” Heartache floods her features. “My parents were killed, but the verdict's still out regarding the pilot.”

  Now I do feel sorry; I'd have to be a complete sociopath not to. That said, something about her statement doesn't sit right with me. “Not to be morbid, but how is that possible? I thought you said the plane crashed into the river?”

  She exhales a ragged breath. “It did, but he wasn't in the crash...not exactly. There's no one to verify it for sure given the only two passengers on the plane didn't make it out alive, but according to the investigators, the plane went idle shortly after takeoff. They also found a parachute along with a life preserver in the water, and when they found the plane at the bottom of the river, the door was open. Based on that, they thought there was a possibility he jumped out of the plane before it crashed.”

  My chest tightens. “You mean to tell me—”

  “That my parents' last moments on earth were spent watching the pilot they hired jump to safety while leaving them to crash to their deaths? Yeah, pretty much.”

  My stomach sours. “Fuck, this is so wrong. It doesn't take a genius to figure out there's something ridiculously disturbing about what happened to them.”

  Agony slashes across her face. “I know. But seeing as they never recovered the pilot's body, they had no choice but to assume he died too.” Her nostrils flare. “The investigation went on for years, but nothing ever came of it.”

  “Do you think the pilot's still alive?”

  Her face collapses. “I do. To be completely honest, nothing about my parents' death ever sat right with me.”

  I can't blame her for feeling that way. “Not to go all conspiracy theorist on you, but were your parents' dangerous people? Spies? Mobsters? Inside traders? Did they have information about something they shouldn't? They obviously had money, given they were taking private planes to the Caribbean.” I pause when I realize I'm not only crossing boundaries with my questions, I'm leaping over them. “I'm just trying to figure out what happened is all.”

  She visibly swallows. “Save yourself the trouble. I'm pretty sure I've already figured out the truth and there's not a damn thing I can do about it. No one believes me because I don't have a scrap of evidence to prove it. It's a dead end.”

  “You can tell me the truth.”

  She pins me with a cold stare. “Not only do I not even know you, but you're one of my least favorite people on the planet at the moment. Why should I trust you?”

  “It's not about trusting me,” I tell her. “Earning your trust isn't something I care enough about to put effort into.” When her mouth falls open, I add, “I wasn't trying to insult you, I just don't waste my energy on people who serve no purpose for me. And you've already made it clear you hate my guts. This is nothing more than giving you an opportunity to speak the truth to someone who will believe you.”

  She snorts. “And you'll believe me?”

  “Of course, I have no reason not to.”

  Because I know what it's like to think no one will.

  I rest my elbows on my knees, focusing on her. “Besides, I've got a few more hours to kill. Mostly because I'm lost, but that's neither here nor there.”

  She gives her head a slight shake. “You're the strangest person I've ever met.”

  I wink. “I've been called worse. Now spill it, angry girl.”

  She looks positively irritated. “Angry girl? Christ, did you really just give me a nickname?”

  “If I say yes, will you start talking?”

  “No.”

  “Good, because I didn't.” I have to bite back a smile as her annoyance grows. “Although as far as nicknames go, that one suits you.”

  “I can think of a few choice ones that would suit you,” she mutters under her breath.

  I tap my watch. “I think we both know listing those will take you entirely too long. You'll save yourself both time and effort by telling me who you think is behind your parents' death instead.”

  She draws her knees up to her chest. “Fine, but only because my night can't get any worse, not because we're friends or anything.”

  “Duly noted.”

  “Have you ever heard of Kit-Bit?”

  “Yeah,” I say, recalling one of the world's largest personal-computer software companies out there. “I think everyone uses Kit-Bit.”

  A ghost of a grin touches her lips. “My dad was the computer programmer.”

  My mouth nearly hits the ground. “No shit.”

  Her eyes gleam with pride. “Shit.” She waggles her eyebrows. “Go ahead...ask me what my name is.”

  I eye her suspiciously. “What's your name?”

  “Kit.” She folds her arms around her knees, locking them in place. “Most people think it's short for Katherine, but it's not. It's my actual name. Although my parents usually called me little-bit.”

  There's so much anguish in her eyes I have to suck in a breath. “I take it you were close?”

  She nods. “They were the best parents anyone could ever ask for. My dad worked a lot, but he always made time for his family. Neither he nor my mom treated hanging out with me like a chore or obligation. We would always have so much fun together.”

  “Sounds like you had a nice life,” I say, tamping down my jealousy.

  On the surface, my life was one that dreams were made of, but anyone living in the Holden household knew the reality was more like a nightmare.

  “I did. Eight short years wasn't nearly enough.”

  Our eyes connect. “No, I can't imagine it was.”

  She clutches her knees so tight her knuckles turn white. “When my dad developed Kit-Bit, he became wealthy and successful really fast.”

  “The American dream.”

  “Basically,” she scoffs. “Anyway, shortly after Kit-Bit skyrocketed, my dad's brother, my uncle Garrison, tried to claim that he was the co-founder.” A crease forms between her brows. “Things got re
ally ugly for a while. At one point, he even threatened to sue him.”

  “Damn,” I say, and she nods.

  “In the end, my dad settled out of court. Not because my uncle's claims were right, but because it was tearing my grandmother apart to see them fight.” She casts her eyes down. “The woman is evil, but she loved both her sons more than life itself.”

  She hitches a shoulder up. “They didn't talk for a few years after that. Then one Christmas day when I was seven, he randomly showed up at our house hysterically crying.” Her jaw sets. “He said he was diagnosed with cancer and his doctors didn't give him long to live so he wanted to make amends. Of course, my dad accepted him back with open arms. He was family after all.”

  A hunch burrows deep in my gut. “Let me guess, shortly after there was a delayed Christmas miracle and he was in remission.”

  She grimaces. “Less than three weeks later. And mysteriously his doctor's office burned down, ruining any trace of his medical records...not that it mattered. My dad and uncle were then closer than ever.”

  She folds her hands in her lap. “You see, my father was a computer genius and a great businessman...but he wore his heart on his sleeve, which led to people taking advantage of him. Cut-throat he was not.” She laughs. “My parents were kind of hippies in a way because they were all about peace, love, and happiness. They just loved to love and would help anyone in need.”

  She wipes a tear from the corner of her eye. “Anyhow, a few months before my father's passing, my uncle invested in a brand new private airline for the rich and famous.”

  I feel my heart drop a little with those words and I silently urge her to continue.

  “I know it sounds crazy, but I think my uncle Garrison had something to do with my parents' murder. The pilot my dad hired privately also worked for the airline my uncle invested in, and I—” Her eyes pierce mine. “I feel it in my bones, you know? There's this overwhelming awareness that sits like a boulder in the center of my chest. But no one believes me.”

  Her mouth flattens and that angry scowl returns. “Around six years ago, I reached out to the police about my suspicions. They listened but ultimately said there was nothing they could do. They had no proof to charge him and they told me that not only was my uncle very cooperative when they spoke to him, but him investing in the same airline that happened to hire a pilot who ended up crashing the plane that killed my parents was more of a bad coincidence than a motive. Then they told me if I wanted to talk to them again, I needed to come back with my guardian.”

  She inhales a breath. “Later when I brought it up to my nanna, she became so livid she locked me in the basement until I apologized for even thinking such a thing.”

  “What?” I growl, startling myself.

  “Relax, I survived. I even learned to get used to it; given it was a common occurrence after that. Although for a different reason entirely.”

  I massage the tension building like a skyscraper in my neck. This entire situation is awful. “It's none of my business, and you don't have to answer, but who did your father's money go to?”

  “It's super complicated.” She chews on her bottom lip. “My mom was estranged from her family, so my parents appointed my Nanna Bishop, my dad's mom, as my guardian in the event of their deaths and created a trust. Right now, my nanna oversees it, since she's power of attorney, the beneficiary of their will, and my guardian, with the understanding that when I'm twenty-five whatever's left gets turned over to me.”

  When I make a choked sound and shoot her a look of horror, she quickly says, “I know how it sounds, but I promise it's not as bad as you think. My father has written instructions pertaining to me that my Nanna has to abide by.” She starts ticking things off with her fingers. “Necessities like food, shelter, and clothing are paid for out of the trust, and my college education is covered. I also receive huge gifts for my birthdays and holidays.”

  She motions to her BMW. “Like this sweet ride.” She leans against the windshield. “In addition to all those things, I also get an allowance every month. A nice one, given my parents were billionaires and all. Unfortunately, there are some issues with that thanks to my Nanna and her contingencies—” She pauses and shame shadows her face. “God, I shouldn't even be complaining. My parents made sure I didn't have to want for anything, and although I'd give it all up in a heartbeat to have one more day with them, I'm extremely fortunate for what they left me.”

  “No judgments here,” I tell her, feeling relieved. At least she's being taken care of on some level. Not that I should give a rat's ass, but the business major in me is glad to hear it.

  I watch as a star zooms across the night sky. “Just think, in another three years it will be all yours and you won't have to deal with your grandmother anymore.”

  “Four years,” she corrects and I do the calculations again.

  “Sorry, guess I assumed from what you said before that you started your senior year of college and would be turning twenty-two this year.”

  She twists her hair on top of her head and pulls out some kind of clip, securing it in place. “Nope, I'm a December baby. My parents enrolled me in school early, so I was a year younger than all my classmates. I'll be twenty-one on December 13th.”

  I inwardly wince. “Lucky number thirteen, huh? I'll be twenty in February.”

  “February what?” she asks and I immediately regret saying anything.

  I mumble my reply and her lips twitch. “You're a Valentine's day baby?”

  I glare at her. “Do you have any idea how annoying that is to hear?”

  “Oh, please,” she says. “I was born on Friday the thirteenth at exactly 1:13 a.m. weighing in at six pounds and thirteen ounces. Do you have any idea how annoying it is to hear from Triskaidekaphobic assholes that I'm some kind of bad luck charm?”

  I try not to cringe, I really do, but she catches me anyway. “Seriously? You too?”

  I study the paint on my car. “I like to gamble. It goes without saying that gamblers tend to avoid the number thirteen at all costs.” When she huffs out a breath, I say, “Don't worry, I'm not gonna run away screaming or anything.”

  “Not even if I ask nicely?” she counters.

  I grin. “Not even if you ask nicely.”

  An uncomfortable feeling swoops in my stomach as I recall her words from earlier. “You said before that your grandmother locking you in the basement was a common occurrence growing up...why? Other than the fact that she's evil of course.”

  She blanches. “You know, I've been telling you a lot of personal stuff and I hardly know anything about you.”

  “That's not true,” I defend. “I just told you my birth date and that I like to gamble. That's more than most girls find out by the third date.”

  Her eyes flicker with rage again and I remember we're supposed to be enemies.

  For some reason I can't pinpoint, disappointment fills my chest.

  Maybe it's because the whole Becca and baby situation doesn't feel so suffocating when I talk to her.

  It's been kind of...nice.

  I'm not ready to let go of that yet, so I clear my throat and say, “My name is Preston.”

  She looks me up and down. “Yeah, I know. It makes sense. You have that whole snobby and entitled thing going for you.”

  She ignores my dirty look and swings her legs over the hood. I try not to chuckle as I watch her short limbs dangle a few inches above the ground. “So, Preston. Why the fuck are you wearing a suit?”

  At that, I do laugh. “I'm a business major at Yale.”

  Her gaze is calculating. “I'm a business major myself, but that still doesn't explain anything. Not unless you were at an internship, and considering it's the weekend—”

  “I went to a casino tonight. I like to wear suits when I gamble.”

  She cocks her head to the side. “Awe, does it make you feel all grown up and important?”

  I flash her some teeth and dimple. “Nah, baby. What's under the suit makes me fe
el grown up and important.”

  Her expression twists in disgust. “Ugh, did you really just call me baby and refer to your” —she sweeps a hand up and down— “male anatomy in the same sentence?”

  “Wasn't aware my male anatomy was so offensive. Never had any complaints before.”

  I want to kick myself when pain flickers across her face again. I don't know why it bothers me to see her upset, just that it does. “I'm sorry.”

  When she looks down at her shoes, I say, “My favorite color is green because it's the color of money. I have a five-inch scar on the back of my head that's covered by my hair. And I can add, multiply, and divide a set of numbers in my head quicker than it takes most people to process a solitary sentence.”

  She freezes. “What's 5,528 times 6,623?”

  I blink. “36,611,944.”

  She pulls out her phone. “Divide that number by 26,500.”

  “1,381.” I hold up a finger. “.58279245283.”

  She looks down. “Holy shit, you're like Rain Man.”

  I straighten my spine, feeling a weird combination of vulnerable and defensive. “Contrary to what some of my doctors first thought when my teachers insisted that my parents have me checked out, I'm not mentally challenged and I'm not on the Autism spectrum.”

  I look away, hating how candid I'm being. This entire conversation is stupid and I detest that I can't seem to keep my mouth shut around her. “No one knows why I have Hypercalculia, just that I do.”

  I keep the fact that one doctor suspected a brain injury from some kind of childhood trauma to myself. Besides, my father covered his ass when he said that I might have taken a few accidental hits to the head because I grew up playing football with him and my older brother. Hence the scar.

  His declaration couldn't have been further from the truth though. I hate the sport and the only time I don't is when I'm making money off it.

  Chalk it up to just one more reason I'm a disappointment to Mr. Spencer Holden, former NFL quarterback turned powerful investor and NFL football team owner.

  Also known as the man who abused me for years.

  My own personal monster under the bed.