Page 10 of One Last Thing Before You Go

“I don’t even live here.” I shrug, frustrated. Though I have never been more confused about something in my life, I appreciate Walter’s generosity. Especially considering how we left things the last time we spoke—but what was the guy thinking? “I’m a freelance photographer who travels the world for a living. It’s not like I got a ton of flexibility, here. I’m not exactly in a position to stay in one place and manage a business. I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

“I believe it was Doctor Adams’s intention for you all to use Miss Veracruz’s experience to renovate it, perhaps⁠—”

“What?” Lottie cuts him off. “Walter hated my ideas. He always put them down. Told me it wasn’t ‘the right time.’”

“I don’t know about that. It’s certainly not what he said at our last meeting. He spoke very highly of you. Maybe when he referred to it not being the right time he meant, well… not in his time, but yours.”

Her laugh is hollow, humorless. A far cry from the one that filled me with light the night we spent together. “This has to be a joke, right?”

“No, Miss Veracruz. But of course, like I said, it’s up to you three to determine the best course of action. Actually, as per Doctor Adams’s request, I’ve set up a meeting for you three with a business manager for tomorrow at four here in the store. I hope that’s okay. If you should have any problems, here is my business card.” I take one in a fog, my mind still trying to catch up with everything.

I glance over at Lottie and watch as she stares out the window, looking lost. I want to go over to her, the feeling almost overpowering. So I clutch my hands together to keep from reaching out.

“Right…” I sigh, still dumbstruck.

I gotta get out of here. Fast.

For the first time since hearing the news, Jenn speaks up: “Just out of curiosity… How long ago did he prepare this… this will?”

Leroy smiles fondly at her, as if understanding the meaning behind her question. “Last week, Miss Roberts. Just two days prior to his death.”

Jenn’s face crumbles, tears streaming freely down her cheeks.

Lottie takes her small frame in her arms, running her hands in soothing motions up and down her back. “Hey, it’s okay. It’s okay.”

“It’s… It’s a pretty big coincidence,” she says between sobs.

“Not really.” Leroy sighs. “He’d been diagnosed a while back. He knew it was just a matter of time.”

My stomach drops. “Diagnosis? Didn’t he die of a heart attack?”

“Yes. I’m the one who found him. I even rode with him in the back of the ambulance,” Lottie says, Jenn still in her arms.

Walter was sick? And Lottie was the one who found him?

My head spins as I attempt to catch up, trying to make sense out of everything.

I keep my eyes on her as Leroy speaks. “Ah, not quite. He had been sick for a while. The heart attack, I assume, was due to the strain the lung cancer had put on his body, perhaps.” Lottie’s breath catches. Meanwhile, I feel this sudden need to scream. “Doctor Adams called me right after his diagnosis months ago, but urgently had me change his final will a few days prior to his death to include Miss Roberts.”

“I knew it,” she whispers.

Their voices fade into the background like a faint buzzing as I go through an out-of body experience.

Walter knew he was going to die months ago and didn’t make contact? I don’t know how I should feel. We didn’t have a relationship, but… He knew he was dying. He knew he was fucking dying and he couldn’t pick up the damn phone once and tell me so? He’d rather have died without speaking another word to his son than meet me half way after one stupid argument years ago?

Rage. It buzzes through my skin, courses through my veins, coats my entire body in bitterness, and heats me all over.

Fucking Walter.

“Anyway. These are for the loft upstairs. I believe there is point of access through the store and one through the back of the building. Miss Veracruz will be able to show you the way.” He pulls a set of keys from his briefcase.

“I—I’ve never actually been inside, but yes, I can take you,” she says, her voice small. I turn to look at her—to really look at her—and realize her eyes are bloodshot, her brows pulled together, and she’s gnawing on her lip as if trying really hard not to cry.

Again, I have to stop myself from comforting her—which is insane, right? I mean, it was my father who died. Not hers. I should be the sad one. I should be devastated. Instead, all I am is enraged.

“Perfect. Here you go, then. Pleasure doing business with you.” With that, he drops the keys into my palm, gathers his things, and leaves the three of us completely dumbfounded.

CHAPTER FIVE