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And now decisions had to be made, and it was Byron’s job to make sure those decisions made sense.
He was quiet. “Tell me.”
When I finished updating him on the damage, the way it had sat empty, and the things Charlotte had told me, he let out a slow exhale. “This is tricky, Burke.”
“I had a feeling you’d say that.”
He paused before answering. “Chris and Amie were thorough in how they distributed their money. I can’t produce that type of overage from thin air right now, not without removing it from someplace else. It would have to come from what they set aside for their daughter’s care.”
“No,” I said immediately. “They wouldn’t want that.”
Somewhere on my phone was the last picture Chris had sent me of Mira. She was wearing a tiny Dallas jersey I’d sent her for Christmas. He’d snapped a selfie of the two of them, him giving a thumbs-down and her flashing a massive grin that showed off her small, pearly-white teeth.
My heart clenched painfully.
I wondered if she missed them. If she cried at night because Amie wasn’t there to tuck her in.
“How is she?” I asked. “I haven’t ... I haven’t reached out to Amie’s friend at all.”
“Doing well, the last I heard,” he answered gently. “She’s young, you know. I don’t think she’s always aware that they’re gone.”
The weight of grief—which varied day to day—hit different places at different times. That’s what made it so fucking horrible. Sometimesit was a light awareness pressing on your skin, something you couldn’t brush away or totally forget. A niggling reminder that something was gone, something was wrong and you couldn’t fix it.
And sometimes, like now, it felt an awful lot like a loose wrecking ball had crashed into my chest.
“So what are you going to do?” Byron asked.
I didn’t have the energy to lie to him.
“I have no idea.” I blew out a slow breath. “Is that bad?”
“I think it’s very understandable,” he responded. “I wish I could help you with the budget, but financially, their wishes were very clear. I can’t deviate from that.”
How nice for him, that those wishes were clear. I wished I could say the same. I put the phone on speaker and opened up my text thread from Chris. My thumb slowly trailed up over our messages until I found the picture from Christmas.
Behind Chris and his daughter, there was a decorated tree, with glowing white lights and a homemade ornament of Mira’s handprint in red paint.
It was such a small hand.
“You still there?” Byron asked.
Mira’s face was pressed tight up against her dad’s, reflecting the kind of ease and affection I’d never experienced with my own father. Her smile sent a pang through my stomach. It was so deep that even if I tried, I couldn’t breathe through it.
It felt like someone was ripping my guts out with a hook.
“Keep the money,” I heard myself say.
“What?”
I pinched my eyes shut. “Whatever money they set aside for this, just ...” I paused, forcing my eyes open so that I could stare at my friend’s face. “Give it to his kid.”
He was quiet. “Are you sure? No one is expecting this from you.”
Chris was frowning in the picture. My eyes burned, and my lungs squeezed tight.
“I’m sure.” The words sounded like someone had their hand around my throat.
“Okay. I’ll transfer that into the part of the trust set aside for Mira.”
