Page 45 of Ashes of Saints

When we sober and catch our breath, I send her a sad smile. “It’s more likely she was a criminal; you know that right?”

Chloe takes my hand and squeezes it. “Yeah babe. Use that two mil and hire a detective. Then you might get some answers.”

Good idea.

My own detective skills are average at best.

I spent quite a few hours researching Parker Stone and still don’t know much more than he’s told me. He’s a company director of about seven businesses, a billionaire, as I suspected, owns a private jet and helicopter. He’s also in the news regularly for some of his business decisions and... has some extremely hot friends.

I’m not telling Chloe.

I MOVE INTO Mom’s penthouse the following week, leaving behind all my old furniture for the next tenant and just taking my belongings.

I’m told the cash I’ve inherited could take months or longer if someone contests it—which hasn’t happened so far—which means I only have the small savings in my account to use for moving.

It doesn’t extend to hiring a van, so Chloe helps me move. I ring for a cab and fill it with bags of my stuff.

It was a tough decision, but I leave all but one of my paintings behind. The driver was already annoyed and stuffing them in, damaging them anyway.

Someone else can enjoy them.

Or throw them out.

What do I care?

I do care. Painting is something I love doing. Being alone as a child for such long periods, I would lose myself in imaginary worlds and bring them to life on canvas.

Mom always looked at them in judgment. “Where did you learn to do that?”

I’m sure I was wrong, but she almost looked scared.

Why?

She was such a strange woman.

“I don’t know. I just painted it. Do you like it?” Nine-year-old me asked.

“No.” Mom turned and walked out of the room.

I supposed that’s when I realized I would never be a famous artist or make money from it, but that’s not why I did it. I painted as if it filled my spirit with joy. I felt free, like a bird flying through the sky with no limits.

I could wave at imaginary friends and soar across the world, landing on islands, sand dunes, mountains, or rivers. I could go to a theme park, a ball game, or a circus.

It all happened in my imagination and no one could stop me.

Then, I’d paint it.

My own little world.

But I hadn’t become a famous artist, and while Parker commenting on the one hanging in my apartment had made drunk-me smile, I would have to be careful with how I lived at Mom’s house. The utilities could be far bigger than I could afford.

The first thing I did when I stepped through the door was turn off the underfloor heating. Who the hell needs that? Especially in spring.

I’m still coming to grips with how this is going to change my life. I’m a multi-millionaire. Or will be one day.

I just wish I knew how Mom had earned the money.

Something keeps tapping at my mind and nudging me to ask more questions.

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