“Not your trust money.”

I frown when she shoves a sheet of paper across the desk. A bank statement. My bank statement. “I’m sorry, I’m not following.”

“Check the deposits. Your trust money never showed up this month.”

I skim the page until I see what’s she’s talking about. On the day my deposit usually appears in my account, there’s no activity at all. Nothing in the week that followed, either.

I sit back, relieved. Here I’d been mentally preparing for a financial version of the Red Wedding and instead, the issue is most likely a software glitch. “Don’t sweat it, I’m sure it’s an easy fix. I’ll hop on the phone with my grandmother and get it all sorted out. Now, go on, take a bite of your bear claw. Otherwise, I’ll stop believing I’m your favorite client.”

“You aren’t my favorite client,” she deadpans, before obliging me by cracking open the box and pulling out a donut. After taking a bite, she grants me the barest hint of a smile. “You’re not my least favorite one, either. Now, leave me alone to deal with all the ones who don’t have your magic touch.”

I open my mouth to make a quip about my magic touch, then close it again. Professional boundaries and all. Instead, I get to my feet, grab a pastry for the road, and exit, wondering what this admin snafu with my trust fund is about. I need to get it straightened out if I’m going to make a play for the new start-up I’m thinking about investing in.

Used to be, I ignored the monthly deposits—and everything they represented. Sure, having a steady stream of cash makes my life easier, but I would trade them in a heartbeat to have my parents back again. They died in a car crash when I was fifteen, but they had enough insurance and investments to see that my sister and I would always be taken care of.

Investments that have only grown in time.

Talk about a poisoned chalice. It always felt wrong that their deaths set me up for life. Piper would roll her eyes and bug me to at least invest the cash in a 401k the way she did, but it took me a long time—until my friends started making plans for Mavericks—when I realized I could channel the money into something good. To build a future, something my parents would be proud of.

So, after investing in the bar, I started branching out. Small start-ups, companies with vision who needed someone to take a risk on them. I’ve had some misses, sure, but the hits have stacked up, and now I have a nice portfolio.

One I’d like to keep growing, so I dial my grandmother.

“Hello, this is Zelda Dashford Farnsworthy-Cox, whom may I ask is calling?”

Just like her, my grandmother’s drawl is Southern through and through. “It’s your favorite grandson.”

“Now that must be a mistake, because my grandson is a charming reprobate who’s neglected to call me in ten whole days.”