“You got that, Lenny? Lillian Smith, plot 102.”
“Yeah.” I set down the pen because I can’t write her name down. Not without a stiff drink. I pull the bottom drawer of the desk and withdraw the bottle of Hendrick’s, still in the liquor store bag. Twisting off the lid, I forgo normal efforts and bring the bottle directly to my lips and take a long, needed drink.
CHAPTER 48
LILLIAN
I’m starting to understand my limitations. I can’t move things. No one can hear me. I can move in and out of places and to and from locations by just thinking of them. I realize now that Mike never saw or heard me when I went home from the cemetery.
I seem to be stuck, with no memory of how I died, and with nothing to do but watch the never-ending channels of real life. The colors are duller now than they were earlier, the sounds softer. Everything is starting to fade, which makes me think that soon, I will disappear entirely.
While I am contemplating this, Jacob walks in and drops his backpack on the table. Hitching his pants higher, he starts up the stairs, his head bobbing to some music on his headphones.
Oh no. I follow him as he checks something on his phone. He doesn’t know, and I’m tempted to fade away, to shield myself from this.
Mike calls his name and Jacob groans at the top of the stairs. “What?” he shouts down.
“Come here.”
No, Mike. You should go up to his room, should deliver the news somewhere other than the dining room. Then again, is there ever a good place to tell your son that his mother is dead?
Jacob takes his time, changing his shirt first and pulling off one shoe, then the other. My anxiety rises as he plugs his phone into the charger, his face insolent as he intentionally drags out the trip downstairs. He’s pushing Mike’s buttons, but this isn’t the time, and I cling close to him, inhaling the scent of him, unsure how long I will be able to experience it.
By the time he makes his way slowly down the stairs, one foot thudding before the other, I am crying, as much for myself as for him. Our last conversation was a fight. That video . . . Will that be the last imprint of me on his mind?
I won’t be at his wedding.
Won’t hold his child.
I won’t be able to give him advice on life, or love, or college, or anything, ever again.
I didn’t know. I didn’t realize that that conversation would be our last. If I had, I wouldn’t have let him go. I would have begged him for forgiveness. I would have forced him to listen to me, and then I would have given him every piece of wisdom that I had.
Now Mike delivers the news with slow, carefully chosen words. He probably practiced them in the office before Jacob got home, emphasizing different words in different combinations to see how they delivered. The winner still hits sour on my ears. Your mom was found on the beach. It looks like an overdose. We’re waiting on more information.
I’m shaking my head because an overdose can’t be right, but I will have to deal with that later. Right now my focus is on Jacob, who has sat down at the dining room table, in the chair I normally use, and his hands are in his lap, and he’s not looking at Mike. He’s looking at the table, and I can see a shell shuttering around him, like a beach house boarded up before a storm.
“Are they sure it’s her?” He’s not crying, and that’s the Mike in him. The complete swallow of emotion, the energy focused on the diagnosis and next steps. “A lot of people look like her. People are always saying that she looks like that actress. The one from Weeds. Maybe it’s that woman.”
I try to touch his shoulder and I can’t.
“I’m going to the station to identify her body, so I’ll make sure—but the police are certain. She’s wearing the clothes that your mom was last seen in.”
The clothes I was last seen in. I close my eyes and try to remember the last thing I was wearing, but I can’t even remember what I did yesterday.
Then Jacob lets out a sound, a stiff gasp, and as I watch helplessly, his flat features seize, then crack, and my stoic boy, my boy who never cries at anything, begins to loudly sob, and watching it is the single worst moment of my life.
CHAPTER 49
MIKE
My assistant is bent over her desk, her perky ass offered to the room, sharpening a pencil. I walk through the reception area without saying anything and quietly shut the door to my office. I’m taking a seat behind the large walnut desk when she rings my line.
“Yes?”
“I was just making sure you were here. I didn’t see you go by.” Her voice has a chipmunk lilt that makes me want to dissect her throat with my pen, but the male clients seem to enjoy it, which is one of the reasons I haven’t let her go, despite a dozen reasons why that action is justified.
“I’m here.”
“Okay. You have two messages from Mr. Thompson.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “You’re supposed to call my cell if he calls.”
“Oh, I did. I left you a voice mail.”
I pull out my cell to check her story, and dammit, she did. I don’t know how I missed her call, but the discovery of my dead wife is not the sort of excuse that Ned will accept. “Next time, power call me until I answer. Do you understand?”
“Uh, yeah,” she snaps, and all it would take is me to blame the missed message on her and Ned would have her killed before tomorrow morning. I hang up the phone and return his call from the cell I keep in my desk.
“It’s been three hours,” Ned says by way of greeting.
“I’m sorry. It’s been an odd day.”
“We heard about your wife.”
I press my lips together but don’t say anything. His statement could mean a number of things, from a reference to her video to a confession of murder.
“I want to make sure this doesn’t negatively affect my business.”
“It won’t.”
“An investigation into your life isn’t something we’re interested in, so do what you need to do to make sure that doesn’t happen.”
Because avoidance of a police investigation won’t raise suspicion, at all. “Of course.”
“To be safe, we’d like to move Colorado back to our care.”
I let out a hiss of air. “Sir, Colorado has been with me for—”
“A long time, I know. We just want to hold on to it for a little bit, just until this wrinkle gets smoothed out.”
There are a dozen reasons Colorado should stay with me, but a person doesn’t argue with Ned, not if they want to live another day. Moving Colorado, even for a short period of time, will mean a significant loss of value, at least a year’s worth of appreciation, if not more. Not to mention that any move always risks the chance of catching someone’s attention.
But again, you don’t argue with Ned. You say yes, and your lungs continue to flex with breath. A fair trade.
“Yes, sir. I’ll start tonight and move it over the next two days.”
“Wonderful. Call me when it’s done.”
The call ends and I start up my computer and check the balance in Colorado.
Just over $432 million. The main savings account for the Los Colima cartel.
I start prepping the transfer.