Page 72 of One Reckless Night

28

AMELIA

Two months had passed since I’d left Miami. It felt like forever since I’d been in the Miami sun. Clair told me I was lucky to miss August. I was going to take her word for it. Although I was pretty sure I would have preferred the Florida heat and humidity over what I’d been doing.

After getting my mother home and arranging the funeral and doing the million other things that came with handling a person’s death, I felt like I’d been running a marathon. I was physically and emotionally drained.

But the end was in sight.

I was sitting in a solicitor’s office in London waiting to be called in. I checked the time, hoping to be called back soon. I just wanted it to be over with. It was time to close this chapter.

“Miss Pritchard.”

I slowly stood, feeling the usual wave of dizziness that had been plaguing me for weeks. The stress was getting to me. I didn’t correct him about my proper title. In this context, it didn’t matter.

I went into the office and was told to take a seat.

“Hi, Amelia.” The older man smiled.

“Hello.”

“How are you doing?”

I forced a smile. I had been asked that a hundred times in the last couple of months. No one really wanted an honest answer. Because truthfully, I wasn’t doing great, but that would just make everyone uncomfortable.

“I’m doing okay,” I said. “Thank you for asking.”

He handed me a large envelope. “This is everything,” he said gently. “Your grandparents left you some money, as you know, but the bulk of their estate passed to your mother, which will now pass to you. It’s not much, I’m afraid—just some family photographs and documents. But it’s yours now. The deed to the flat is in your name.”

I nodded, my throat tight as I took the envelope. “Thank you,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “For everything.”

He gave me a small smile. “Of course. If you need anything else, don’t hesitate to call.”

I stood up, clutching the envelope to my chest, and left the office. It was a strange feeling as I walked out. It was the end of so much. And although I knew this day was coming, I couldn’t believe it was actually here. No amount of preparation could have prepared me for this.

I walked the once familiar streets of London. It was a typical bustling afternoon. The sidewalks were packed, the smell of rich espresso hung in the air mingling with the constant scent of damp. It was home. And familiar, but I felt disconnected from it all. My mind was elsewhere, back in the council flat I’d grown up in. It was the last piece of my family’s history, the last place that still felt like home. And now, it was time to say goodbye.

I took a cab to the flat, my heart heavy. I stepped inside. The place was small and worn, the walls covered in faded wallpaper and the furniture old and mismatched. But it was filled with memories—of my grandparents, of my mom, of the life we’d built here. I walked through the rooms, running my hand over the familiar surfaces, and felt a lump rise in my throat.

The flat smelled of dust and old wood, a scent that was both comforting and achingly sad. My feet sank into the worn carpet that hadn’t been replaced in decades. The light from the single window in the living room spilled across the floor, catching dust that floated lazily in the air.

The place had sat empty for a long time. With my mother in a home and me traveling and then moving to Miami, the place had been neglected. I should have gotten rid of it a long time ago, but I couldn’t let go.

I walked to the couch, its floral fabric frayed at the edges. The cushions suffered permanent indentations. I sat down, sinking into the spot I had sat countless times. My fingers traced the armrest where my mom used to rest her tea cup, leaving faint rings that had become part of the furniture’s history. I could still see her there, curled up with a book, her reading glasses perched on the tip of her nose. She’d always hum under her breath, some tune she’d heard on the radio or a melody she made up on the spot.

I stood and moved to the small dining table by the window. The surface was scratched and stained, but it had been our gathering place—where we’d eaten meals together, where I’d done my homework as a child, where we’d laughed and argued and shared stories about our days. The chairs wobbled slightly when I pulled one out to sit, just as they had when I was a kid.

The kitchen was only a few steps away. It was cramped and outdated but filled with memories as well. The faded yellow cabinets still held mismatched plates and mugs, one of which had a chip on the rim from when I’d dropped it as a teenager.

And I wanted none of it. Everything was being donated and the flat would be put on the market. I should have done it earlier, but I just couldn’t bring myself to say goodbye. I had wrestled with the idea of moving back to the flat. Back to London.

But it felt like going backward instead of forward in life. My mother wouldn’t have wanted that. Not that she knew much about who I was or what I did, but I liked to believe there was a part of her that was locked inside that brain of hers. She would be cheering me on and telling me to continue my research. Her story was over, but there were so many others that might have a chance at avoiding her fate.

That’s what I had to do. I had to keep pushing on. If I could save one little girl from the same heartache I faced, it would be worth it.

“Goodbye,” I whispered, my voice trembling. I took one last look around and walked to the door. “I’ll miss you. All of you.”

I didn’t particularly believe in ghosts, but if my mother’s and grandparents’ spirits were lingering, it felt appropriate to say goodbye.