Page 32 of Double Bucked

More paper shuffling. Stop fucking with the papers. “In his will, he made a clear divide of his finances. Firstly, the farm debts should be paid off in full. Whatever remains will be split in half. Half of it is to be donated to the Belleflower Benefactors Society. The other half is to be donated to the Semper Fi Foundation.”

“That fucking foundation again,” I mutter.

Waters blinks at me. “I’m sorry?”

My ears are ringing. Waters is speaking, explaining the next steps, but I can’t hear him.

All I can hear is that fucking grandfather clock.

Tick. Tick.

I didn’t want his money. I don’t want it.

But to be cut out of the will entirely?

Money was Daddy’s love language. This message is clear.

You bitch. You selfish, ungrateful bitch. Choke on this.

“The Preacher Ranch, he’s left in the care of Arris Dagney. Your father did leave you something,” Waters continues, and through the fever in my skull, I manage to tune back in. He says, “And…please be aware, I’m quoting directly. These are his words. Not mine.”

“Just spit it out,” I say.

He clears his throat. “To Claire, my—ah, again, this is a direct quote—to Claire, my thankless bitch of a daughter, I bequeath this paperweight as a reminder of what she was to me. A weight.”

And then he slides a round rock paperweight across the table. It’s a smooth rock with the image of a closed eyeball etched into it.

I could laugh.

There are papers that need my signature. The pen scratches against the page as I scrawl my name over and over. The words blur in my vision. I can’t read it. I just want to get this part over with.

At some point, James realizes I haven’t said a word. His hand falls to my thigh. He squeezes. “We have a long night ahead of us.”

“Yes.” Mr. Waters awkwardly shovels the loose papers back into his briefcase. “The funeral tomorrow.”

James stands. Ever the gentleman. Politely, he gestures to the door. “I’ll walk you out.”

James leads Waters out of the room. I should rise to say goodbye to him, but I can’t.

I can’t move. I can’t blink. I can’t do anything but stare at that grandfather clock.

Tick-tick.

There’s a knock on the door. I glance up.

James stands in the open doorway. He leans against the frame, his elbow propped up. “Waters is gone. How are you feeling?”

I shrug. “Fine.”

He presses his lips together. He steps through the room and then crouches to put his hands on my knees. Here, he bends down until he’s eye to eye with me—or eye-to-glasses-to-eye, anyway.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi.”

Even crouched, he’s still taller than me.

“I sent Harding out with a grocery list,” he says. “We’ll have everything we need to make an all-American burger.”

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