“Sorry, I forgot your juice boxes, teeny bopper.”
I rolled my eyes. That was Six’s nickname for me. That or ‘Toothpick’. I wasn’t sure which one I preferred.
“Wine?” my mom asked, standing and stripping off her gloves. “Does this mean what I think it means?”
Six darted his eyes to me before he looked back at my mom. He shook his head quickly. “No. The wine was an impulse.”
An uncomfortable silence fell over us then, weighted with whatever he and my mom were wanting to discuss without my ears overhearing.
“Cora, you probably want to get showered after your run, yeah?” my mom asked from behind me.
I looked back at her and then leaned against the counter, crossing my arms over my chest. “No, I’m good.”
Her eyes narrowed on me, signaling that her question was more of a statement. I sighed and pushed off the counter, walking past Six and up the stairs to the bathroom. Before I grabbed a towel from the linen closet, I leaned my head towards the first floor.
My mom spoke first. “Have you thought about what I asked?” I heard the sound of the wine bottle being placed on the counter.
“Of course I have, Liddie. How could I think about anything else?”
“And?”
There was silence for a moment and I worried for just a second that they knew I was lurking at the top of the stairs.
But then I heard Six sigh. “I don’t live a lifestyle suited for children, Liddie.”
My eyes popped wide. What could they be talking about?
“She isn’t a child.”
Me? They were talking about me?
“She’s not an adult, Liddie. If you’re asking to make me her legal guardian should something happen-”
“Shh,” my mom hissed. My mom wasn’t stupid. She knew I was listening in. I heard the click of her footsteps towards the stairs and I whipped around the corner to the bathroom, shutting the door as softly as I could as her steps ascended the stairs.
I turned on the water and then pulled on the shower head knob, even though I knew the water wasn’t ready.
I heard my mom's footsteps retreat back down the stairs and I reluctantly climbed into the shower, wondering at their conversation.
When I opened my eyes, I was staring at the wall I’d painted red.
If my memory served me right, that memory was about six months before my mom had died. And, if my assumptions were correct, my mom wanted Six to be named in her will. The reminder sent me into another flashback.
Uncomfortable. That was the word I’d use for this moment.
I couldn’t complain though, not really. The room was stuffed with people in black clothing, all sitting close to one another as the man behind the expansive desk slid glasses on and opened up a file on his desk.
My eyes darted to the left and I met a wall of text books with words I didn’t understand. My eyes slid to the right and caught Six, who was staring at me with what I could only assume was confusion. His eyes were circled in black, in grief, and his lips were firm. His hair was brushed back and he shifted uncomfortably in the suit he wore, as if he had a wedgie.
The thought made a giggle bubble up my throat but I bit my lip and swallowed it. I shouldn’t laugh.
My mother was dead and the older man with the expensive cufflinks and designer glasses was getting ready to read her dying wishes.
Discomfort settled further in and I didn’t mind it. The last week had been, in a word, hell. I had stayed in my room, rarely coming out. When I did, all I heard were the hushed voices of the people who stayed with me in that house. A cleanup team had long since left my mother’s bedroom but the door was sealed shut, no doubt thanks to my aunt.
The hushed voices and the eerie calm of the house was so abnormal, so unlike the sing-song voice of my mom. The house wasn’t my home. My home had been carried off in an ambulance while I’d been surrounded by people who were nobodies.
So I’d take being uncomfortable in this room of the people my mom knew over being in a house that wasn’t how it should be.
As the lawyer read the words, my mind drifted away to a place where my mom lived: in my memory.
It wasn’t until I felt the hand on my arm and my name being repeated that I snapped back.
“Cora,” he said.
I lifted my eyes and met Six’s, the startling green of his irises piercing my vision. “Six.”
It was the first time I’d seen him since before I’d found my mom’s body. I watched him glance around. “Come with me for a second,” he said, delivering his words with a light squeeze of his hand on my arm.
I stood up, smoothed out the black dress I wore. My legs felt a little shaky but I pretended to feel otherwise. I passed my aunt on the way out the door and she smiled at me in a reassuring way. It was similar to my mom’s smile and I quickly looked away, feeling the grief seep into my bones with each step around the people that were mourning her departure from this earth.
Once we were outside of the building, I took a deep breath of the fresh air, let it fill my lungs. I looked sideways at Six, and felt that grief seep deeper.
Six tucked his hands in his pocket and looked back over his shoulder at the law office. I turned my gaze to the street in front of us.
“Cora,” he started. But he didn’t continue until I looked at him again. He lifted a hand to his head and pushed the hair back. “I’m at a loss for words.”
I shrugged and wrapped my arms around myself. I squeezed, encouraging grief to tighten my lungs. “I don’t need any.”
That was the thing about people in mourning. All the people on the sidelines felt like they were required to say something, as if words would alleviate the crushing reminder of the absence of a loved one. “I’m sorry for your loss,” was nice but it wasn’t necessary. It wasn’t like people were actually thinking, “I’m happy for your loss.” Words in the depths of grief were just noise.
“I suppose you’re right.” We stood there looking at the street and unexpectedly, grief started to let me breathe again. Standing outside next to Six was actually helping. I figured it was because he was the only other person close to my mom.
“So,” he said after a few minutes of silence, “you’re going to live with your aunt and uncle.”
It wasn’t a question, but I answered it anyway. “Yep.”
“Do you feel…” the rest of his sentence dropped off as he searched for the right word.
I glanced at him, “I’m fine with it.” I didn’t have any other choice anyway. They were practically strangers, but they were the only family my mom had.
“They seem like good people.”
I shrugged. “They’re strangers.”
“She’s your mom’s sister.”
I raised an eyebrow. “I don’t even know her last name. She’s still a stranger.” I pointed back to the office. “All of them are. They look at me like they’re waiting for me to breakdown and kick and scream.”
“They don’t know you,” Six confirmed. He glanced back to the office again before looking at me. “You have a lot of composure. You’re strong, like your mom.”
That bit. “She wasn’t strong.” That one sentence was the sum of my feelings for this situation. Yes, I grieved my mother. But I also blamed her for this. When I wasn’t crying, inside I was screaming. I hated her for taking her life, for leaving me to live with strangers.”
“Don’t ever say that, Cora. It’s not true.”
I glared at Six. “Clearly, you didn’t know her that well.”
He turned to face me. “Your mom was the strongest woman I’ve ever met. How she died does not define how she lived. If this is as much of a shock to you as it is to me, that alone should tell you how strong she was.”
I clamped my lips shut and looked away from him. “Don’t tell me how to feel,” I muttered. Nothing he could say would change my mind because nothing he could say would bring her back, and that was the crux of my anger.
He sighed. “I kn
ow you don’t know me all that well, but I knew Liddie-I knew your mom-very well. And I know she’d want me to be a presence in your life if you want.”
I bit the inside of my cheek and gnawed on it a bit. “I barely know you,” I murmured.
“And you don’t even know any of them,” he said, motioning a hand towards the office. He ran his hands through his hair again. He wore discomfort better than he wore his suit. “But if you need anything, don’t hesitate to reach me.” He slid his hand into his pocket and returned with a business card. I watched him flip it over and scrawl something on the back. “This is my cell phone.”
I took the card from his outstretched hand. On one side was ‘Six’. On the other was his hand-written phone number.
I held it up in the air and looked at him strangely. “Don’t these things usually have numbers on them already?”
“There is,” he said taking it from me. He flipped it over to the side that read ‘Six’ and pointed. “There’s a number.”
“Uh, okay,” I said, unsure if he was trying to be funny or not. I took the card back. I decided not to ask why he didn’t already have his phone number printed and pocketed the card.
“Just don’t call me for bail money.”
“Why? You reek of money.” I looked down at his leather shoes and back up at his gold watch before I looked at him. I saw the twitch of his lips, as if he wanted to smile but didn’t. He was only around thirty years old, but his face made him seem far older, especially when he had that uncomfortable-wedgie look.
“Because I wouldn’t ‘reek’ of money if I spent it all bailing youngsters out of jail.” The door to the office opened and people started spilling out. “Just promise me to call if you need anything.”
“Anything?” I asked. I wanted to crack a joke, but the look in his eyes told me he was serious. I nodded. “Okay.”
I saw the red wall again when I opened my eyes. I remembered when I’d believed my mom had taken her life, when I’d been so angry and in grief that I’d suppressed memories of my mom. Reliving them now hurt, but was also clarifying.
While I knew I had latched onto the suggestion that my mother had been murdered, I was starting to believe it with each flashback. I knew, in my core, that there was something else going on.
My feet carried me to the bedroom and I burst through the doorway so quickly that I rattled the door on its hinges. “You told me before, when we were on the lake, that my mom had money.” I was breathing heavily.
Julian closed the lid to his laptop and set it aside. “Yes. It was rumored, but everything I’ve looked up suggests that she had money.”
I stood in the doorway, a million thoughts running through my head. “Didn’t you say she’d inherited money from her family?”
Julian nodded. “Her parents were wealthy. They passed away in a car accident, leaving your mother and aunt to inherit their estate.”
“But my mom lived in a tiny house. She wore grubby, second-hand clothes.”
“I don’t think she wanted to advertise her wealth.”
I thought for a minute. “Before my aunt died and Hawthorne downsized to that apartment, my aunt had a large house.”
Julian removed his fuck-me glasses and set them aside, running his hands through his hair. “Your aunt had sizeable medical bills from her cancer treatments. It’s my belief that whatever your aunt inherited had been spent on bills.”
I started pacing. “I always assumed Hawthorne made good money where he worked, but he couldn’t have afforded that house.”
“Which was why he sold it after your aunt passed away.”
Things were clicking into place. “So my aunt spent her inheritance and my mom saved hers.” I pulled my shirt away from my chest and fanned myself with it, still warm from my run. “So what happened to the money then?”
Julian got up off the bed and approached me. “It went into a trust. For you.” He put his hands on my upper arms. “I believe he was receiving disbursements from the trust, to cover living expenses for you.” He squeezed gently, as if he was grounding me to him. “Six is specifically looking for documents relating to your trust.”
It was a lot to take in. The idea that my mom had money was unbelievable because she’d lived so frugally. We never ate out, she didn’t purchase designer clothing. We didn’t even have cable. “It doesn’t really make sense, at least in regards to my mom.”
“Think about it. Did your mom have a traditional job?”
I shook my head. “She did freelance writing gigs. Here and there.”
“You were her world, Andra. She didn’t need the frivolous stuff; she had you. And she spent her money making sure she could stay home with you.”
That much made sense. But before I could think about it anymore, Julian pulled me into his arms. “I’m sure Six and Mira will uncover more answers tomorrow.” I felt his lips press against my hair and I had to force myself to relax in his arms.
But I couldn’t quiet all the thoughts percolating in my brain.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I waited by the disposable phone most of the day yesterday, unsure of when Mira would be calling exactly. I ate lunch at the dining table, tapping my leg like a nervous habit over and over while my eyes kept sliding to the phone.
Around seven that night, the phone finally rang.
“Hello?” I asked, answering the phone on its first ring.
I heard a muttered swear and something shuffle against the earpiece. “Hey,” her voice finally came in. “Let me put this pain in the ass headset back on.” I heard more shuffling and nodded to Julian who’d come in from the kitchen when the phone had rang.
“Here I am,” Mira’s voice came through. “Can you hear me?”
“No, I can’t hear you.”
“Smartass,” she muttered. “Fuck, it’s cold.” I heard her blowing on her hands. “I’m in the apartment. What the fuck is that smell?”
I knew exactly what she was smelling. “His cologne.”
“He’s a cheap bastard.”
I resisted the urge to smile. “His office is the second door down the hallway.”
“Okay, okay, keep your panties on,” she muttered. I heard her let out a breath. “Have you been behaving?”
Her voice was teasing, but it grated on me nonetheless. “If you’re wondering if I have left the house, the answer is no.”
“Six will be happy to hear that.”
“Happy?”
I heard Mira’s answering chuckle. “Yeah, you’re right. Six being happy is something mythical, like the Loch Ness monster. He operates on two levels: pissed off or serious. Or seriously pissed off.”
Experiencing a chatty Mira was unusual. I wondered if she was nervous. I heard the sound of a door opening, its creak bringing me to where she was in the apartment. “Why are you going in my room?”
“Calm down,” Mira mumbled. “I’m just looking.”
In the ensuing silence, I tried to picture her walking down the hallway, tried to put myself in her shoes. I closed my eyes, visualized the hallway with its old, stained carpet. The walls covered in badly-patched holes.
"It's locked." Mira's voice broke through my memory and I frowned.
"That door is never locked." I thought for a second. “That knob doesn’t even have a lock.”
“Well it does now, Andra.” I heard what I assumed was the door rattling on its frame. "Well, that's annoying," she huffed. "Do you know where he'd keep a key?"
I racked my brain, thrown off by this unexpected hurdle. "Did you check around the frame? At the top?"
I heard her grunt. "I'm too short."
"Jump."
I heard her signature laugh. "I have an avocado on my bladder. If I jump, I'll piss myself."
"Can't you just pick the lock?"
"No shit, but a key would be faster and leave fewer marks.”
“Check the drawer in the kitchen, to the left of the fridge. There might be a key there.”
There was rustling and I t
apped my fingers on the dining table while I heard her rummage through a bunch of items in that junk drawer.
“There’s only a dozen keys here,” Mira said.
“Look for a new, shiny one. Hawthorne has had keys in that drawer for years.”
“Okay, I have three keys. Let’s see if one of them fits.”
A moment later, I could tell by her grunts that she was trying to fit a key into the lock. “None of these are working,” she growled. “I need to pick it.”
I heard her drop her bag and then the noise of her rifling through it.
“I need to put the pen light in my mouth, so don’t ask me anything while I try to pick this bitch.”
I chewed on my lip as I waited, the only sounds from her end the soft tinkling of metal against itself.
“This isn’t working.” I could tell by the tone of her voice that Mira was rapidly losing patience. “I’ll need to use a credit card.” She grunted. “This little avocado is fucking up my brain cells.”
“You can use a credit card?”
“Yeah. I just forgot I had one on me.” A second later the door creaked open. “There.”
I closed my eyes, trying to picture the office, as I’d seen it last. “When I was there earlier this summer, there were papers strewn across the desk.”
“There’s just boxes now, on either side of the computer.”
“Boxes? Is he moving?”
“Maybe you should ask him, Andra.”
There was Mira, her sharp sarcasm ever present. “What’s in the boxes?”
“Looks like junk. Books,” she answered. I heard rustling. “Oh, what’s this?”
I waited for her to continue and when she didn’t, I tapped on the table harder with my fingernails. “What?”
“Left you in suspense, didn’t I?” she laughed.
“What is it, Mira?”
“Hold on,” she said. I heard the rustle of papers.
I tapped my fingers more quickly, the impatience needing an outlet.
“Was your mom a writer?”
“She did freelance projects here and there.” I wondered where she was going with this.
“Would you recognize her handwriting?”
He Saved Me Page 11
