Page 105 of Good Girls Lie

Really, I’ve become a parrot. An utterly, completely numb parrot.

“Ash, drink your tea,” Dean Westhaven encourages, forcibly lifting my hand to my mouth.

“I do think you’re in a wee bit of shock. Well, it’s big news, I’m sure. Too bad you’re not a spot older, we could put a nip in that cuppa, eh, Dean?”

“Ash, are you well?” Westhaven asks, clearly concerned.

I’ve buried my face in the teacup, biting my lip so hard I taste blood.

“What is her name?” I ask finally. “My sister.”

“Alexandria. Alexandria Pine. Mother’s name is Gertrude. Little Alex is an orphan, too, poor love. Sadly, her mother died from a drug overdose a few months ago, so she is also alone in the world. According to her work records, Alexandria was employed by a tea and chip shop in Oxford less than two months ago. But she moved on, the café owner said she’d had a job offer in London. Better opportunities, better pay. Who knows, you might have been face-to-face with her and never known it.”

Alexandria. “And this girl inherits half of my father’s fortune? This...complete stranger?”

“That’s the long and short of it, yes.”

“Doesshehave to have a college degree?”

Now he looks distinctly uncomfortable, flushing from his neck to his hairline. Good. The shoe is on the other foot.

“Erm...well, no. She inherits immediately, I gather. Outside of a morality clause, there’s nothing impeding Alexandria from taking her fortune as soon as we identify her. Forgive me, Ash, for sharing what the gossips are saying at the firm—your father only found out about her parentage recently. He wanted to make things right.”

“How?”

“How?”

“How did he find out?”

“A letter came. From this Gertrude. Your mum found it, apparently. Held on to it for a while. But he got his hands on it, brought it to the firm when he asked us to start looking for the girl.”

“And this woman, Gertrude. Who was she? You say she died from a drug overdose?”

“Yes. She was an addict. Heroin, I’m told.”

I sit as straight as I can, the squashy chair making it difficult. “How, exactly, did Sir Damien Carr have a child with a heroin addict named Gertrude? That’s simply ludicrous. My father had standards, at least.” We both know what I’m talking about. “Damien Carr was ridiculously wealthy. From an excellent family. He was the fucking wealth manager for half of fucking Parliament—”

“Ash! Your language is inappropriate.”

“Excuse me, Dean. I must be in shock. But for my father to dally with some sort of...addict, to get her pregnant, and to only now, after his death, be trying to acknowledge her? I’m rather curious, Mr. Nickerson. How many more ‘sisters’ will be coming out of the woodwork to claim their pound of flesh? This is an outrage. You should be ashamed, bringing me this nonsense. There is no legitimate codicil, my father would have told me.”

Nickerson is still blushing. “I am sorry, Ash. I don’t know any more than I’ve shared. I’m just the messenger.” And with a flourish, he pulls out a kit from his briefcase and some paperwork. “We only need a cheek swab, no blood work, thankfully. And a few signatures. All very civilized.”

My fury is burning hard and fast inside me. I want to run. I want to hide. I want to scream. Tears burst forth.

“Now, now. There’s no need to cry. There’s plenty of money to go round, and you’re no longer alone in the world. Ash, think. You have a sister, someone you can build a relationship with.”

I have to stop crying but I can’t. The dean finally takes me by the hand and leads me to the bathroom off her office.

“Get it out, darling. You’ll feel better. Splash some cold water on your face. We’ll be here.”

I sit on the toilet in this magnificent marble and chrome room and sob into my hands. For my lost mother. For my lost father. For my dead roommate, my lack of dignity, my ruined relationship with the one person who’s shown me real kindness since I came to America. For the fucked-up mess my life has become.

Sister. Sister. Sister.

Inherits half. Half.

If I’d only waited. If I hadn’t been so rash. The sorrow of it all is overwhelming.