The Inheritance (Volume Three) Read online

  “I’ll call you if I find anything,” I say, disappearing into the crowd.

  Five

  I’m not allowed to visit Neal and I can’t call him either. Before we left Gina’s house Alanis turned off his phone and threw it at the bottom of his bag.

  “No phone calls,” she said. “The last thing we need is someone tracing your calls.”

  I come back to the condo and nap in my bedroom, waking up when the front door slams. It’s dark, the moon glistening through my single window as two voices fill the condo. I don’t have to check to know they belong to Ashleigh and Chris, the pair of them laughing to the kitchen.

  When I was in college, my roommate and I used to tease each other when we came home with a boy. We would switch roles every weekend, crossing our arms as we leaned against the living room wall, eyebrow raised as we watched the other awkwardly move around the small space, beneath watchful eyes.

  “You guys were out pretty late,” we would say, innuendo heavy on our tongues.

  The other would blush while the boy battled an uncomfortable smile, glancing between the two of us as if he couldn’t believe college-aged girls still played games like those.

  I don’t know Ashleigh enough to pull something like that, but more importantly, I don’t care. Her loyalty to my father fuels the guilt twisting in her stomach when she looks at Chris, but she probably knew my father was cheating on her, like Gina knew about Darlene and Darlene knew about whatever girl eventually led her astray. If Chris makes her happy, if Chris promises to be loyal, she deserves a little fun, even if it involves rolling around in the bed she used to share with my father.

  A cork pops in the kitchen and Ashleigh releases a light giggle. Like bubbles, it floats through the air and beneath the crack of my door, pulling me upright in bed.

  I grab my phone and do a quick Google search for, Doctor Louis Romero. There are plenty of them in Brazil, their dark hair curled close to their scalps. I narrow my search, Doctor Louis Romero Chicago, but nothing comes up, not in “Images”, not in “News”.

  A glass breaks in the kitchen. Chris laughs and I push myself out of bed.

  I have to go to the bathroom.

  My bedroom door opens and Ashleigh and Chris’s voices hush to a whisper. I cross the hallway and close the door behind me, making more noise than necessary – dropping the toilet lid, turning the spray of water on high. When I come out, Ashleigh pokes her head down the hall.

  “Hey,” she says, a careful smile tugging at her mouth. “I didn’t know you were here.”

  “I don’t have to be,” I say, eyes flickering towards the kitchen.

  A hot blush crawls up her cheeks. “This is your house, I wouldn’t kick you out.”

  “You aren’t kicking me out, if I offer.”

  Chris appears behind her, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his jeans. Light blond stubble outlines his jaw, his t-shirt a little worn, his shoes scuffed. He’s almost the polar opposite of Neal who’s always neat even when he’s on the run.

  “Caitlin,” he says, plastering on a smile. “Why don’t you join us for a drink?”

  Ashleigh nods enthusiastically.

  “No, thank you,” I say, motioning towards my room. “I think I’m going to head back to bed.”

  “Nonsense,” Ashleigh says, grabbing my wrist. She pulls me out the hall and into the open living space. “Chris bought a bottle of very expensive champagne.”

  “Three hundred dollars,” he says with a shrug. “It’s nothing.”

  It dawns on me, as I climb on the barstool at the kitchen counter, that I know nothing about Chris – what he does, where he lives – only that he’s Neal’s friend and didn’t attend my father’s funeral.

  Ashleigh throws an uncomfortable arm around her stomach when Chris’s shoulder touches her, one hand permanently stuffed in his pocket.

  “You can touch each other,” I say, rolling my eyes.

  Ashleigh’s face turns red but Chris’s lights up. He removes his hand from his pocket and throws his arm around Ashleigh’s waist.

  “What did I tell you?” he says, lips moving against her cheek.

  Ashleigh plasters on a smile, patting Chris’s hand as she takes another sip.

  “What is it that you do?” I ask Chris as he pours three flutes of champagne.

  “I’m pouring you a drink,” he says, pushing the glass towards me.

  Ashleigh laughs, her forehead pressing against his shoulder.

  My smile’s tight. “I mean for a living.”

  “I was Neal’s only assistant,” he says. “But now Martin and I split the duties.”

  “Is there really that much to go around?” Ashleigh asks, staring up at him.

  “Of course,” Chris says, leaning close.

  Their mouths press together. I take a long drink, averting my eyes and focusing on the mess in the sink. They’ve been dirtying the dishes and letting them rot.

  Chris pokes his tongue out of his mouth and swipes it against Ashleigh’s bottom lip.

  I clear my throat. “Ashleigh.”

  She breaks away, a blush crawling up her neck. “Yeah?”

  “Did my father ever mention a Doctor Romero?”

  Ashleigh’s face falls. Chris slumps against her and she removes his arm from her waist. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep myself from grinning. I don’t care what she does with Chris but I’d rather not see them sucking face.

  “I don’t think so,” she says, eyebrows furrowing in the middle.

  “Maybe a Doctor Louis?”

  She shakes her head. “He never talked about any doctors around me,” she takes another sip. A pitiful laugh passes through her lips. “He probably knew I would ask too many questions.”

  “Doctor Louis Romero,” Chris says, stepping close to Ashleigh. “I’ve heard that name before.”

  I straighten my shoulders. “You have?”

  He nods. “He’s Neal’s cousin or something.”

  My throat tightens, blocking my sliver of champagne from going down the right way. A cough burns in my chest and I’m forced to spit it out in my glass. Chris’s face twists in disgust. Ashleigh breaks away from him and rips off a paper towel.

  “Are you okay?” she says.

  I cover my mouth. “I’m fine,” I say, wiping my face. Then to Chris, “Louis Romero is Neal’s cousin?”

  Chris nods. “Something like that. Their mothers immigrated here together. He’s known Louis his whole life.”

  “Who is he?” Ashleigh asks, glancing towards Chris.

  “No one,” I say. “His name just…” I shook my head.

  Her face collapses. She recovers with a smile, turning her attention towards Chris. “I need to go to the lady’s room,” she says.

  He drops a kiss to her cheek. Ashleigh scurries from the room.

  Chris places his glass on the counter, standing directly in my line of vision. “Ashleigh tells me Neal’s in hiding.”

  “He hasn’t called to tell you himself?”

  Chris smiles. “We may be best friends but we keep a lot of things from each other.”

  “Doesn’t seem like something best friends do.”

  “Maybe not if you’re a girl.” He takes another drink. “Is he at least somewhere safe?”

  “I think so.”

  “He better be.” The toilet in my father’s room flushes. “When you see him again, you tell him we’re going to handle this.”

  “Who’s we?”

  “He’ll know what I’m talking about.” He leans across the counter. “You tell him I’m going to make things right with Lee. Alright?”

  The door to my father’s bedroom opens. Ashleigh hums as she floats down the hall.

  Chris’s eyes narrow on mine as he waits for my answer. I imagine Chris standing over Lee’s body, his nose broken and bloodied, his teeth knocked into his throat.

  “Alright,” I say.

  ______

/>   Chris spends the night.

  In the morning his shoes are in the foyer, tucked messily next to Ashleigh’s flats.

  My father’s shoes decorate the opposite wall. Expensive black or brown Oxfords, lined next to a pair of turtle shell shoes he only wore with his tuxedo. Shoes he bought for his wedding to my mother, his first truly pricy pair, he wore to every subsequent wedding. I can almost see Gina or Darlene scowling at the ominous air the shoes brought with them. They were a shined omen, a guarantee that what he had with them wouldn’t last, but my father refused to give them up. They were his first marker of success.

  I find an empty box in the hallway closet and pile his shoes in it. They’re in such good shape I can sell them but I don’t have that sort of effort in me.

  I donate them to the Goodwill, in my father’s name. A drop of white in a legacy of black.

  I wonder if the papers will report on this.

  I grab breakfast at a café downtown, a tourist trap with obscenely high prices but the smell of pancakes draws me in. I order a stack of blueberry pancakes with a side of hash browns and whipped cream. I feel all of sixteen again, eating alone on a Sunday morning, until the waitress offers me a Bloody Mary and pours me a glass without proof of age.

  “It’s a little early to be drinking,” a voice says behind me.

  I stick the black straw between my teeth as Anthony Serafin rounds the small cafe table, blue on top with a silver rim. He’s grinning at me but there’s less light in his eyes. The left one’s blackened, purple and dark blue festering around it. I imagine the men who dragged him out of Neal’s party, throwing him on the back lawn of the yacht club, one pressing him against the ground as the other packs a punch.

  “What are you, my mother?” I say, looking past him.

  The café’s on Michigan, the bright windows showcasing the throngs of tourists running left and right, maps tucked beneath their arm as they swing bags full of t-shirts, mugs, and posters of the city’s skyline.

  Anthony laughs and pulls out the chair across from me.

  “Don’t sit down,” I say.

  I’m not surprised when he doesn’t listen. There’s no camera wrapped around his neck, no notepad stuck between his fingers, just his cell phone gripped in his palm.

  “That was some party,” he says, leaning across the table.

  I don’t answer him, sucking in a palm-sized gulp of my drink, allowing it to fill my cheeks.

  “You don’t want to talk about that…Okay…”

  “I don’t want to talk to you at all.”

  His grin spreads a little wider. “Then what are you doing right now?”

  I roll my eyes and have another sip, waving over the waitress. She bustles over, her hips swaying uncontrollably.

  “Can I have my food to go, please?”

  “She doesn’t mean that,” Anthony says. “But could you get me a pastrami sandwich, on wheat?”

  The waitress glances between the two of us. “Are you two together?”

  “No,” I say at the same moment Anthony says, “Yes.”

  “She’s being a little complicated.” He twists up his face. “You know how women can get.”

  The waitress twists her lips and sticks out her chest. No, she doesn’t know how women can get.

  She looks at me. “I’ll box your food up for you.”

  “You’re stalking me,” I say, the second she’s out of ear shot.

  “I don’t think I am. I saw a friend –”

  “We’re not friends.”

  “—out for lunch and thought I’d say hello.”

  “We’re not friends,” I say again.

  “Maybe you don’t consider us to be, but I do. How are you feeling?”

  I take another sip of my drink. “Fuck off.”

  Anthony smiles. “That’s the sort of reaction I’d suspect from someone whose boyfriend goes missing around the same time her father dies.”

  The thick drink catches in my throat. “Excuse me?”

  “Most women in your position would be wrecks, you know. Unable to leave the house without collapsing into a fit of tears. I don’t think I’ve seen you cry once.”

  I lean across the table. “Is this your way of admitting you’ve been following me?”

  Anthony shakes his head. “I didn’t say anything like that. Your boyfriend’s been missing for close to twenty-four hours. Do you think he’s still alive?”

  I sit back in my chair. “I’m not having this conversation with you.”

  “Most people don’t think he is. There’s no ransom, no note, he just,” Anthony snaps his fingers, “disappears? Everything points to an off-premise murder.”

  He’s trying to get a rise out of me and it’s time to play my part. My bottom lip quivers before I suck down another gulp of my drink, eyes cast towards the blood-red mixture, fingers pinching the celery stick as I swirl it around. I allow the lump in my throat to grow and stretch beneath my skin, stinging the corners of my eyes as I glance up at Anthony, a ring of tears swelled around them.

  His eyes widen. His hands tighten on the table. He didn’t mean to make me cry.

  “How long has your moral compass been broken?” I ask, spitting out my words.

  Anthony sits up straighter. His eyes dart around the café to make sure no one’s watching us.

  “I didn’t…” He leans across the table. “I’m sorry.”

  “My father’s dead,” I say, raising my voice.

  The table next to us – a mother and daughter – glance at us.

  “I know,” Anthony says, words barely above a whisper. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean –”

  “My father’s dead and all you can think about is the fact that I’ve quite possibly lost someone else. What do you want? A fucking photo of me falling apart?”

  The servers near the kitchen door glance over, six sets of eyes on us. Anthony shrinks beneath their gaze.

  “You’re right. I’m sorry,” he pushes back his chair.

  “You’re so cruel,” I say as Anthony stands.

  He nervously nods before spinning on his feet and heading towards the door. Our waitress rushes from the kitchen.

  “Excuse me,” she says, waving her hands. “You still have to pay for your sandwich.”

  The entire café is watching now. Me, sitting with tears running down my cheeks, Anthony trying to dart away. He hurries towards the counter and throws a twenty at the register.

  “Keep it,” he says, running for the exit.

  Six

  At brunch I suck down two Bloody Mary’s and afterwards I allow my feet to lead the way.

  I sway down the sidewalk, a soft smile tugging at the corners of my mouth as I soak up the sun and the sounds of the city. Chicago is always less harsh than the streets of Baltimore. There’s no violent pop of handguns around street corners, no men on the corners selling drugs out of small vials with red tops. At least not on the North Side.

  My head feels light as I walk down the steps to the subway platform, hands behind my back as I wait for the blue line. I know I’m not supposed to visit Neal but the pull in my stomach leads me to him, like a rope wrapped around my waist.

  The train comes and with it a stale wind. My hair blows in my face, the stench of the subway clogging my nostrils.

  Beside me, in the screech of the steel wheels against the track, Alanis appears. She’s carrying a bag of Garrett’s popcorn, popping caramel slicked pieces in her mouth, black sunglasses perched on her nose.

  I glance over at her but she says, “Keep looking ahead.” I do. “Get on the train and find an empty bench.”

  Alanis travels down the platform and steps on the train car, two down from my own. I find an empty bench and slide near the window, my purse claiming the seat beside me.

  The train lurches forward. A few minutes pass before the connecting door at the back of the car opens. Alanis pushes through, ignoring stares as she takes the seat next to m
e.

  “You have a tail,” she says, pushing her hair behind her ear.

  I’m tipsy enough to check my ass. “I don’t think I do.”

  “It’s noon,” she says, shaking her head.

  “Yes, well, I’m going through some shit.”

  “You aren’t the only one.”

  I glance around the train, at the faces of the commuters focused on their books or their cell phones. Train etiquette number one: Never deliberately make eye contact with anyone. This means keeping your head down and fixated on your items. Train etiquette number two: Make sure no one steals your shit.

  “Who is it?” I ask, leaning close to her. “The tail?”

  “He’s on the next train car,” she says, thumbing over her shoulder. “Medium-height, balding in the middle, white hair, brown eyes. He’s been following you since yesterday.”

  A nervous sweat breaks out at the back of my neck. “Who do you think he is?”

  She shrugs. “He could be with Lee Geon.” My throat tightens up. “Or he could be a reporter looking for a good story. At any rate, we won’t be getting off at Neal’s stop. I’ve parked the car at California. Walk four blocks, make a left in the alley with the daycare sign, make a right, and I’ll be right there.”

  The train pulls to its first stop. Alanis stands.

  “Where are you going now?”

  “I’m getting off here, so he doesn’t suspect we’re together.”

  ______

  By the time we make it to Gina’s its well past noon. Alanis stops for pizza and makes me carry it up the steps, the greasy box warm against my palm as she knocks four times on the front door, pauses for three seconds, and knocks again. Neal swings the door open, hidden behind the wooden block and the two of us shuffle inside.

  I throw a glance over my shoulder, watching the street for anyone who may have followed us. My “tail” followed me off the train and up the stairs of the subway platform but I lost him weaving through the alley.

  Neal stares down at me with a sort of smile I haven’t seen in years. It’s one Justin used to wear when we first got together, the corners of his mouth dreamily tugged outward, a goofy grin drawn on his face in loose watercolor.