Page 67 of Roaring Fork Rockstar

“That’s the charity named in my codicil,” I told her. “The one I have to donate to.”

“I forgot about that,” she said slowly.

“It’s too strange to be a coincidence,” I muttered. “There’s something going on here that I don’t understand yet.”

We talked for a few more minutes, both of us exhausted but reluctant to disconnect. We whispered how much we missed each other and finally said good night.

After we hung up, I found myself too restless to sleep despite my exhaustion. Damn, if that charity—the very one named in my codicil—didn’t keep popping up. Why? I pulled out my laptop and settled on the sofa to research more about the organization I was required to support.

Their website was professionally designed, with pages about their mission, programs, donation options, and a brief history. I clicked on the “About Us” section, scanning for any clues that could explain why my inheritance and that of my siblings would all go to them should I fail to fulfill my part of the trust’s stipulations.

“Founded in 1993 by an anonymous donor,” I read aloud, “specifically to help children with leukemia and their families in the Crested Butte area.” That it mentioned the same disease Luna had fucking rattled me.

I pulled up the family tree, which Sam had updated and sent everyone. It was easier to check it than try to remember when we were all born. The year the charity was formed fell between Buck’s and Porter’s birthdays.

I dug deeper, looking for any mention of founding board members, but the site maintained their anonymity. The charity’s logo caught my attention—a scarlet blanket adorned with scattered stars. Something about it tugged at my memory, but I couldn’t place it.

After grabbing a beer from the fridge and lighting a fire in the hearth, I sat my ass on the sofa, knowing I should go to bed instead. My eyes wandered to the built-in bookcases on either side of it. I stood, walked over, and picked up the photo that wastaken the Christmas before Mom died. We all had copies of it. I carried it into the kitchen and flipped on the light, studying my mother’s face. Damn, I missed her.

Something else caught my eye that I’d never noticed before—the necklace she was wearing. I couldn’t see it well enough to pick up any detail, so I used the magnifying app on my phone to zoom in more.

“Fuck,” I practically yelled, almost dropping the picture and my cell. I grabbed the chair nearest to me and fell in it as much as sat. After blinking several times, I looked again, and sure enough, there it was. The same pendant I’d seen in the window of the consignment shop next door to the toy store. The one I gave Keltie for Christmas.

Rather than get another beer, I opened the cupboard and pulled out a bottle of whiskey, then grabbed a glass. I took them both and the photo over to the sofa.

I looked up at the beams above me. “What’s goin’ on, Mama? You visitin’ me in my dreams? Tryin’ to send me messages?” My eyes filled with tears that ran down my cheeks. “I wished you’d straight out tell me. I know this is all connected, but I can’t figure out how or why.”

After downing another shot, I grabbed my laptop again, scrolling back to the charity’s website to examine the logo more carefully. The scarlet blanket with stars—why did it seem so familiar? And then it hit me. I jumped off the sofa and picked up another frame. The picture inside was of my mama holding me, wrapped in a scarlet blanket embroidered with tiny silver stars. I remembered her using it when Flynn was born too.

When my phonerang at nine the next morning, I was still on the sofa, where I’d dozed off—passed out might be a better way to describe it. The caller ID showed Six-pack’s office.

“Wheaton,” I answered curtly.

“Holt,” Six-pack’s voice came through, unusually hesitant. “I need you to come in tomorrow. There’s something?—”

“I have questions,” I interrupted, the whiskey I’d consumed last night making my tongue feel thick and heavy. I cleared my throat. “About the trust and the Miracles of Hope charity.”

He paused. “What about them?”

“What’s the connection, Six-pack? And don’t you try to tell me there isn’t one,” I said.

“I can’t answer that, Holt.”

“Hey, here’s another one for you. The woman who owns the Goat—Keltie Marquez? Guess what her daughter’s been diagnosed with. Got nothin’?” I spat without giving him time to respond. “Leukemia. I mean, hell, what are the odds? Oh, and the charity’s logo? I had a baby blanket that looked a lot like it.”

“Holt, I…”

“What, asshole? Spit it out. What games have you been playin’ with my family? With our lives?”

“It isn’t me.”

“Then, tell me who the fuck it is.” I was yelling now.

“I don’t know. That’s the God’s honest truth.”

“Cut the bullshit, Richard,” I snapped, using his real name for the first time in years. “I’m sick to death of you giving us the runaround.”

Another pause, longer this time. “When certain conditions are met, I’m given more information,” he said carefully.

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