He never said anything.
Never told me off, never yelled at Margot for joining in, even though it must’ve been annoying.
I’ll admit I was a brat.
That knife in my belly twists again. More memories.
Better times.
I only have vague memories of the last time I really hung out with Margot and Ethan. They were older than me and past a certain point, we weren’t glued together. Especially when Ethanmoved on to bigger and better things and avoided Portland like the plague.
Still, the family meetings were warm. I didn’t have a stable home, but there was always a place where I belonged, in this house, with kin who made me laugh and acknowledged my existence.
It doesn’t feel so warm today.
Stop it. Switch off your nerves.
That’s what I tell myself as I climb the stairs to the front door.
I’m jittery because I don’t belong here anymore. Plus, coming to this house alone without PopPop or my cousins feelswrongon a cosmic level.
Honestly, it feels like this house shouldn’t exist without him.
Dad would’ve loved to get his hands on this place so he could turn around and pocket the money from the sale.
Another dark thought. Another reason why I’m nothing like my father.
With everyone collecting their piece of the estate, I’m the last one standing who gets a sliver of Gramps’ legacy.
I squash that thought as I rap on the door. My knuckles sting.
The angry, confused knot in the pit of my stomach gnarls tighter.
I don’t know why coming here feels so momentous. Maybe because I don’t get why we couldn’t just have some quick, painless meeting at a clinical office in town. The lawyer must have one, right?
Then the front door swings open and a balding, smiling man gestures me inside.
“Miss Blackthorn? Come on in,” he says.
All my visions of ghosts disappear in his image. He’s wearing chinos and polished shoes so shiny I can see my face in them.
PopPop would approve. He liked men who were well put together and who projected themselves well.
Man, I feel underdressed in my simple black blouse and skirt. I should’ve shotgunned some makeup on, I guess, since I still wound up dressing for a funeral today. At least I threw on some moisturizer.
“Hi.” I clear my throat and find my voice. “Thank you so much, Mr. —”
“Mr. Roan. I’m taking care of the place until the estate goes on the market. But you can call me Dave.”
“Dave,” I repeat. “Call me Cleo.”
I step inside.
“Nasty weather today. I really thought we were done with winter,” he says politely, shutting the massive door to block the chill. “I think it’s going to rain.”
“Perfect for today,” I joke.
It falls flat.
