Page 45 of The Heir

“I see.” Grandma stood up and wiped her hands on her apron before removing it. She shot grandpa a look that was half warning and then moved to the coat rack. “Let me get my purse and keys.

“Thanks. I’ll be in the car.” I ran my hands over the deep pockets of my scrub top, double checking that I had my change purse and cell phone before darting that way.

My grandma’s car was a Cadillac. It was her prized possession. Every time she went to get a new car, it was the same request. The shiniest town car on the lot and leather seats were a must for Gran. The ultimate luxury in her world. I smiled and wrinkled my nose against her fully exposed dangling air freshener.New Car Smellwas printed across the center of the candle shaped dangling cardboard piece.

I popped the door open to draw fresh air until she arrived and surveyed the collection of ChapStick, peppermints and coins in her dash cubby.

She was such a stereotypical grandmother, the exact opposite of what my mother would have been. Or would she have been? I sat there, the thin scrubs separating my back from the sun-warmed leather and let my mind slide back to the day of the massacre.

I focused not on the tragedy, but the hour leading up to it. My mother had been carrying me in her arms for a time. We went upstairs to the guest room of the Disciple clubhouse, chasing after my father.

She was always chasing after him. Always pleading with him. For us. For love.

I closed my eyes, and I could hear the haunting pleas. He’d shoved her while she was holding me and charged, leaving her begging for the privilege of fetching him a beer to calm down with. He was my father. The man who was supposed to be my hero, but at that moment his face was red. His pupils were blown, and there was coke around his right nostril.

I sat there watching it all over again in my mind, her tenderly wiping away the evidence of his shame so no one would see. Protecting him, even in her last moments. Protecting his fucking façade.

“March,” Gran whispered, but I didn’t recognize her voice through the fog.

I blinked, startled.

“What’s wrong?” the familiar voice pressed.

“She was fetching his fucking beer.”

“Wha–?” The word came strangled on a gasp.

“My mother.” I focused on her and pushed the words past the lump in my throat, “My mother died fetching a beer for him. If we’d just– stayed upstairs. If–”

“Stop.” Her hand weighed against mine and she squeezed. “Do you know, honey, I learned something a long time ago aboutif. What I learned is that if you let all the ifs in life haunt you, you’ll never live again. You’ll have all your joy sucked away before it has a chance to take root and flourish. Every smile will be bittersweet, half spent before it forms. Don’t let the ifs in life sour your future.”

I placed my hand on hers and nodded, swallowing back my words, even if it felt like I’d choke on the dam I’d been keeping. I knew she cared, but she couldn’t handle it. That was the difference. My heart ached, and I didn’t want to go to work. I just wanted to go to him, I wanted to go back to the forest, to those stolen moments where none of this shit was waiting for me. Out here, in the world I’d grown up in, every corner held memories, and most of them were toxic.

I didn’t have any of that with him.

“Can you just drop me off at Aunt Trista’s? I’ll grab my car and circle it around the block to the nursing home.”

She nodded and backed the car out of the drive.

Chapter Eighteen

Blaze

I’d grown up with Oak, so I was used to people stirring around four in the morning. ‘You could take the man out of the military, but you couldn’t take the military training out of the man,’ my mom always joked. Easy was no different. I stumbled down the hallway to find him cleaning his pistol at the kitchen table. His gaze lifted and he shot me a wink.

“Morning, nephew.” He nodded to the coffee pot in the corner, but I put a hand to my stomach and shook my head.

“I can’t drink that, I’ll be on the toilet all fuckin’ morning.”

He laughed and nodded in understanding, “There’s bottled water and juice in the fridge if you prefer.”

I helped myself to a bottle of water and swished before popping the front door open and spitting.

“Hot,” a voice called from the street.

I jerked upright, not having expected anyone. I shoved the door open and strained.

“Sounded like Marchella,” Easy mused.

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