Are you in need of money, Samara? Or are you just cheaper than I thought?
Stacy scurries inside after casting me a doleful look. My chest burns. I want to squeeze Oliver till his eyeballs run out of their sockets. I want him to disappear. Or to supplant his memories with ones where he doesn’t witness this firsthand.
‘You’re the last person to speak to me about money,’ I say, releasing my clenched jaw, ‘when the only reason you can stand in front of me today is because of your father.’
Oliver’s face twitches before collapsing into a blank slate. ‘What are you implying?’
I study his expression but glean nothing. His diction is the way it had been in the alleyway: as impersonal as a psychiatric ward in the 70s. Carefully, I say, ‘That he has enough wealth to run this place.’
‘You can’t
