This is DAD we’re talking about, remember? Did it have something to do with the missing money? Or with the fights Miranda overheard about “where the money went”? Or all those “private discussions” I kept barging in on all the time? Because I couldn’t stop wondering: Is that what he did to us-just threw us away, like an old packing trick?Īnd what about how weird he’d acted, all jumpy and distracted? And asking if I thought he was a bank-he never said things like that. I remember staring at the maimed little half-book sitting in the trash, but I didn’t fish it out because, really, what was the point? But now it seemed huge to me. “Here’s twenty dollars,” he said, slapping a bill on the table. There’s a lot going on at work, and I can’t afford to be late. “But what if you want to reread it someday?” “Of course I do, Cassie, I like them a lot, but they’re not important, they’re just to pass the time.” “Oh, come on, Cassie, don’t make such a big deal. “But, Dad! It’s a book! How could you rip a book?” And he stuffed the other half into his briefcase, which now clicked shut. Then he tossed half the book in the trash.
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