Susan jerked upright on the couch. The color drained from her face, leaving only uneven patches of contour makeup on her cheeks. “Mom, she’s a child, she’s making it up, she has a wild imagination,” Susan squealed, tugging nervously at the edge of her expensive robe.
“Nastya,” Dasha said gently, resting a hand on her daughter’s shoulder. “What else did Aunt Susan say about the clinic paperwork?” “She said if you pay enough, doctors will write whatever you want,” Nastya reported promptly.
“And what did she say about pregnancy stretch marks?” “That she didn’t want them.” “She said she’d rather buy a purse.” Mike sat in his recliner staring at the wall.
In a matter of seconds, his face had taken on the grayish look of a man watching his carefully constructed self-image collapse in real time. The noble rescuer of his poor suffering sister was gone. In its place sat a fool. “You,” Mike said, swallowing hard as he turned toward Susan, “you rented out your place and came here to drain money out of me by pretending to be depressed?”
“Mike, come on, it’s just smart planning,” Susan said, trying to recover, but her voice shook with panic. “I have to live on something.” Dasha clapped her hands once.
The sound was sharp and final, bringing everyone back to the hard facts of the moment. “All right,” Dasha said, leaning against the back of the couch, fully in command now. “Investment genius and fake medical drama, the game is over.”
“Susan, you have fifteen minutes to pack your bags and leave my home.” “It’s Mike’s home too,” Eleanor snapped, though most of the force had gone out of her after her daughter’s public exposure. “That’s true,” Dasha said with a nod…
