Page 1 of Most Of You

CHAPTERONE

“I suppose, sir,”the woman said in her nasal voice, which, oddly, seemed to match the impossibly tight bun she wore, “the silver lining is that you have enough money to cover the demolition of the house.”

Emil blinked at her. Sandy Smith was her name, and he was fairly sure she’d been birthed exactly as she was right then—a tall, lanky, emotionless adult woman in a pantsuit. “Are you telling me the silver lining of my mother’s death is that I’m rich and I can afford to bulldoze what’s left of her life?”

“Most people have difficulty marketing a home that was condemned for hoarding,” she answered in the same voice, completely unaffected by Emil’s statement. “Unless you were planning on living here, of course. And if that’s the case, I’d be happy to forward you my list of contractors to begin the renovation process. I must warn you, however, it will be extensive, and the permits can be difficult to obtain.”

Living there had been the last thing on Emil’s mind when he got the news that his mother had been found dead in her home. According to the coroner’s reports, the neighbor had filed a well check on her after seeing some suspicious wildlife on the property, and she’d been deceased over a month before they showed up to retrieve the body.

Emil had gotten sick directly after that call. He was still living on the East Coast, mitigating an office crisis created by one of his business partners having an affair with the other one’s fiancée. He didn’t think it could get worse than his company in turmoil, but he supposed it was his own fault for putting that thought into the universe.

It took him a week to process the fact that his mother was not only gone, but he was the only one left to deal with whatever affairs she’d left behind. The state of Rhode Island had covered her cremation and sent the ashes to the house. Presumably, they’d sat on the porch for however long it took Emil to get someone to go over there and check on them. The last report he’d been given before he packed up his things and abandoned the West Coast with his best friend and their fractured relationship was that her bag of ashes was sitting on the kitchen table.

And that was that.

Emil knew he should be reacting differently—more human, maybe? But the truth was, he had little left in him to grieve. There was a reason she’d died alone. A reason he didn’t cry, knowing he’d never speak to her again. His only regret was that she’d gone before he found the courage to confront her for everything she’d put him through as a child.

He hadn’t seen or spoken to his mother since he was sixteen. The last time he laid eyes on her, a woman from CPS was holding his arm, forcibly removing him from her house. He had no idea who made the call. It was probably his school counselor. He was dirty, tired, and severely malnourished. He’d been dragged in to see her, and he didn’t even remember what he’d said.

He just remembered being tired and wondering if it was ever going to end. He didn’t totally understand what was wrong either. As a child, he’d believed her when she told him he was sick. He saw the inside of hospitals and doctors’ offices more than he saw his own classrooms. As he got older, he understood it wasn’t him. It was her.

She needed him to be unwell. She only thrived when he was struggling to get by, day to day. She lived for the sympathy cards and the money people would send in the mail because she was a broke single mom, abandoned by her rich ex to take care of their son all by herself. Her sick and dying son without a father to give a shit. And it didn’t help that Emil’s father didn’t fight for him. Not once. She stopped his visitation, and he went to Barbados with his new wife to console himself.

And that was that.

People ate her story up, and Emil was given no choice other than to accept that as his entire identity for most of his childhood. By the time he was thirteen, he’d lost his entire sense of self. He had no idea what was happening was wrong. And dangerous. He just knew that he was both tired and terrified he’d never get away.

She got meaner after that—when she realized he wasn’t going to stay a child forever. Eighteen was creeping up, and the louder that clock ticked down, the more reckless she got. His science teacher noticed his bruising and sent him to the office. Emil didn’t even remember what he told the man—only that he wasn’t sent back to class that day. Instead, he was given a ride to a shelter in a cop car, where he was interrogated by two detectives and some woman in a salmon-colored suit with a badge around her neck.

Emil never saw the inside of his mother’s house again. He was put in a group home for two weeks before his caseworker told him that his father had finally returned their messages and was sending for him. It was the first time since he was younger that he felt a spark of hope.

It was dashed a week later when a man with dark hair and pasty skin showed up in a very expensive suit, driving a Jag. He tossed Emil a wallet full of cash and a set of keys to a car and an apartment. He was given a timetable for a posh private school and shown to the front doors when they arrived in California.

“Where’s my father?” he’d asked only once.

The man—Sebastian—just laughed at him. “He’ll see you when he gets into the country.” And that was that.

Emil didn’t see him until the following summer when he was brought to Oslo—and that had been for a passing moment. His father had been tall, imposing, a young woman on his arm and a cigar clenched between his teeth. He did little more than offer Emil a wink and pat on the shoulder before he was gone, and once again, Emil was left to his own devices.

And that became his life. He lived between the West Coast of the United States and the capital city in Norway—switching whenever he felt like it or when he needed an escape from his own head. He was fed, clothed, had no restrictions and more friends than he knew what to do with…once they all learned he came from money.

He didn’t have to work hard because he was promised a CEO position at his father’s company, and there wasn’t a single problem he couldn’t solve by throwing cash at it.

It was the dream.

And it was a nightmare.

The path had led him to meeting Victor—and, by association, Charlie. They’d been like the Three Musketeers, except they had no need or want to help anyone except themselves. Emil knew then he’d never be the best of men, but he’d never go back to living a life like the one he’d lived when his mother had her claws in him, and he told himself that had to be enough.

It was easy for Emil to tuck any semblance of feelings deep behind his ribs and pretend like they didn’t exist because surface pleasures were so much nicer than dealing with all the pain he’d been ignoring since before he could remember.

And years later, he didn’t speak about his mom. Not ever. His dad came around every once in a while, when he was on a business trip in the States. He’d give Emil a cigar and a pat on the shoulder and tell him he was grateful that he’d managed to get out of the mess his mother made without suffering too much damage.

He always smiled and said, “Yeah. I’m just fine.” Whatever that meant.

Never mind Emil wanted to grab the old man by his designer lapels and scream in his face until the fucker passed out and he no longer had a voice. But he knew he’d never have that courage. Instead, he’d smile, smoke the damn cigar, then drink himself into oblivion so he didn’t have to remember it the next day.

And life might have continued on like that until he died of liver failure, except shit hit the fan. Victor’s fiancée cheated, and Charlie became a pariah. And Emil suffered his first attack of conscience he’d had in years and years. Hell, maybe ever.

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