“You too, child.” Then she disconnects.
Tapping my fingers on my desk, I eye that damn envelope again that’s quietly hollering at me to open it up. I have to read it to put Miss Catherine’s bones at ease. I pick it up and slide my finger along the seal. It pops and the envelope rips under my sharp nail. I slide the document out and my eyes scan over it.
It’s a letter from Boothe and Brown Lawyers. It’s about William Dupré’s will.
I’m confused as I read the document. I’m named, including my new surname, as the beneficiary to all monies, the house and assets, and that one surviving son, a Mr. Dallas Dupré, is to receive one hundred dollars, this being William Dupré’s last will and testimony...blah, blah, blah.
I have to reread the words again.
William has a son?
I didn’t know anything about a son. I couldn’t imagine that evil man bringing a child into this world. I can’t hide my shock that a son even existed. Does Boxer know? But where is he?
Why would William leave me everything and his son only one hundred dollars? He didn’t even like me.
I go to put the envelope in the bin and something else drops out. A key.
This is the key to William’s home. I have seen it before.
This is wrong. I shouldn’t have any of this. I don’t want any of this. His son should have it all. Tonight, I will go over to the house and leave the key with a note. I would assume if the son has received his letter, he won’t be too happy about my name being on the will. I don’t even like my name on it. It draws too many questions.
He might assume all sorts of things. I doubt he would know about my life with William. I was a secret to the world, as far as I knew. He might think William and I were in a live-in relationship and that’s why I’ve been left his assets. This guy must be wondering who I am, and I don’t blame him. The death of his father will be enough of a shock, and then finding out he isn’t entitled to his inheritance, only one hundred dollars…
I have a feeling he wouldn’t have had a good relationship with his father. The man was evil, a murderer, a bully, an abuser. I’m glad his son didn’t get to live under his roof. I don’t know what his story is, but it has to have been a better one than mine.
I decide to let Boxer handle it all for me when he comes home. He’ll know what’s best, but for now, I don’t want to even be in possession of the key. They say that possession is nine tenths of the law, and I don’t want those nine tenths.
I shut the computer down. I have kept myself busy and had a productive day. I need to go work out. It’s the only thing that releases the tension my body feels when the little boxes of memories in my mind are threatening to pop open. I need to center myself and let Boxer sort it out with the lawyer, so we can turn everything over to William’s son legally.
It’s his birthright.
There’s nothing to worry about at this stage, I try to tell myself. I’ll just refuse what has been given to me, and then my world will be back on its axis again.
My meeting with Whisper surprised the hell out of her and she was as beautiful in person as her movie stardom dictated. I’m now headed back to Jackson. All the pawns have been dealt with and my source tells me the biker is on his way. Everything has been timed perfectly.
Even William could not have foretold the shitstorm that is coming for his little pet.
I really should get out of Dodge, but this is gonna be too good to miss.
The maestro has conducted his last song.
What could possibly go wrong?
My Harley rumbles down the old oak canopy that leads me towards the weathered plantation home that once would have stood majestic and proud.
So this is my father’s home.
During the day, the old oak avenue would be inviting, but under a pitch-black night, it’s creepy, just like my father. Trust him to own this place.
I pull up to the front steps, letting the bike engine vibrate underneath my body. There’s no light shining through the windows, no smell of cooking in the air. The house appears quiet, like nobody is home.
My rage is starving for justice. I’ve got my gun tucked into the back of my jeans and I’m itching to use it.
Tonight, I’m the bitch’s judge and jury.
Her sentence?
Death by my hand.
One bullet to maim and cause pain. The second, to be her reckoning.
I park the bike and climb the stairs, regardless of the fact it appears nobody’s home. It’s too quiet as my boots pound each of the wooden planks, heavy with the injustice of my past life, heavy with the fate of the slut who dared to cross my path.
He must have loved this woman to give up everything to her.
I want to see the face of the whore who accepted my father for who he was. As far as I’m concerned, if you were with my father, then you too were a piece of shit, not worthy of being on the bottom of my boot, two fucking evil peas in the same fucking pod.
I knock on the front door. I’m a lost traveller looking for directions, and once I get my feet over the threshold into the privacy of my bastard of a father’s home...
I can only assume the bitch lives here. After all, she now apparently owns it.
What a fucking joke.
I knock again and wait.
Nothing.
I walk around the perimeter of the house and check in some windows. It’s dark and uninviting. I go around to the back stoop and knock on the door.
Nothing.
I sit down on the step and notice the full moon has shed a soft silver glow over the backyard. There’s a dead looking garden patch down the backyard. Nobody has lived here for months, or she simply couldn’t be bothered tending the garden.
I could break in and see for myself. I rub a tired hand over my face. I’m not thinking straight coming here under the cloak of darkness. I’ve let my hatred for everything associated with my father lead me here without a clear plan. I haven’t had enough time to think outside my anger. This needs to be clean and with no ties to me. My brothers will cover for me if I need an alibi.
I need a couple beers and to calm down, then I will come back here later tonight and see if she even lives here. I check my watch; it’s only about a quarter to eight, plenty of time for justice to be served.
The bar shuts down on a Monday at eight o’clock, Boxer’s rules. I’ve told old Paco, the bartender, to go home and I’ll clean up. I need to keep myself busy anyway, get my mind off that letter for a little while.
Paco’s pretty much done everything already. I just need to sweep the floors and take the trash out. It will be my first time closing up. Paco thanks me and heads on out the door.
The town is so small that it really doesn’t warrant being open late Monday through Thursday. Boxer’s times of trade haven’t been met with any resistance. The townsfolk are too old. This is the town young people escape from as soon as they are legal, which doesn’t bode well for it, turning it into a ghost town eventually. It seems like the kind of place where if you lived here, you had a good reason to want to stay. It feels like a place to hide in.