Page 27 of Perfect Order
Well, since I successfully managed that this afternoon after our estate attorney reviewed my trust with my family, there’s no surprise left. Once Castor became profitable, I placed everything I had into a living trust—my home, my bank accounts, stock, even my car—unusual except for the fact it’s worth a ridiculous amount of money. And once Kylie became music gold, she added her wealth to the same trust. We have codicil after codicil in the event something would have happened to both of us, but the biggest concern for me was Castor.
Right now, I’m not worried about my company since “Kylie” now holds the majority of the two hundred shares required by New York State law for any incorporated company, my parents holding the only others. Nothing about how my employees operate should change with the exception of Ivan taking over my role, a temporary appointment of one year in the event something happened to me or I became incapacitated in any way. My lip curls as I recall his comment this afternoon. I mutter, “Let’s see how you do in the driver’s seat, you schmuck,” as I start walking again.
But insofar as the media, once the probate goes public, nothing unusual will surface about our finances. They’ll keep reporting that Erzulie lost her sister. And in the eyes of the dark underworld of technology, I learned every corner, crack, and crevice of, pictures of well, me, will start surfacing with a vengeance. Bile rises uncontrollably when I realize I’m going to have to let some of the seedy tabloid reports come to light, otherwise this plan to flush out my sister’s killer may never work.
“I hope you appreciate what I’m about to do for you, Lee,” I murmur as I approach the freshly overturned dirt. I kick off my sneakers and kneel before the plethora of flowers. Reaching out, I drag my fingers through the rich, brown soil. “What happened? Who did this to you?”
But there’s no answer, not in the air nor along the still-aching twin cord in my chest.
I lie down in the dirt and begin to sing the songs we listened to as little girls. Finally I end it with “I’ll Remember,” because Kylie and I swore no matter what happened, even if we were separated, one day we’d find each other again.
And we’d love each other all over again.
When I’m done, I lie sobbing on my sister’s grave for an unknown period of time before the cold earth begins to register. I stand and whisper, “I love you, always.”
Of course, there’s no response. Not from her.
I hear a leaf, and I whirl around in fear, in fury. “If you want to kill me too, come out! Now’s your chance!” I shout.
The man who slides out from behind the oak tree might as well kill me once I see the professional camera around his neck. He’s tall, handsome, with a runner’s build. But still, I sneer, “No, not a murderer. Just a parasite.”
He flinches but doesn’t apologize as I snatch up my shoes before turning and walking away as fast as I can. I get to the edge of the hill before I stop. My emotions feel violated, much as if he had run his hands all over my body. Yet my sister dealt with these cretins daily. My back goes rigid before I negotiate. “Just leave my parents alone. Let them grieve in peace.”
“I can give you my assurance about that.” My shoulders start to relax before he amends, “At least for tonight.”
I whirl around to meet the man’s eyes. His drop to the dirt where my sister lies, and his face is sorrowful in the shadows. It sets off a memory. There’s something so familiar about him, I feel the urge to analyze him. But I force myself to turn and walk away. After all, Kylie wouldn’t give the paparazzi the time of day.
And neither will I.
Later, in my childhood bedroom, being smothered by memories that are trying to steal me away to join her, something about the face of the man niggles at me. But with much weightier matters pushing at me from other sides, it quickly becomes a secondary concern.
I slip out of my bed and crawl into Kylie’s. I grab her pillow and let tears flow when I realize there will never be another night we’ll stay up talking. There will never be another night where she calls me randomly singing for no reason. I’ll never be able to say goodbye because I never knew I had to.
It isn’t until the sun comes up I’m able to close my swollen eyes.
And by then, I’ve remembered too much about the love that formed me to ever give up on finding out who killed her. No matter the cost.
Kylie Miles shows her utter devastation for the loss of her sister, CEO of Castor Industries — Leanne Miles, in this heartbreaking photo.
This is one of those times when a picture speaks more than words ever can.
— StellaNova
“How am I supposed to survive?” I hear the wailing from my parents’ bedroom and grit my teeth as I pass on my way down the stairs.
It’s been a week since we buried Kylie, and every day feels worse. There’s supposed to be something called closure, and I want to know when the hell that’s supposed to happen. Because every moment I’m alive without my twin in this world feels like another day of hell. I feel like there’s nothing left in this world for me. I wish with every fiber of my being someone would have just cut off a limb because it would have been less painful to my soul than the loss of her to my heart.
Even though I was there, even though I felt her spirit slip from her body, it’s completely surreal to me. Family and friends have sent messages I’ve been fielding. There’s nothing, no touchstone. And it wasn’t until I lost my sister that I realized how much of my world revolved around her. Happiness, joy, balance, they were a part of me because she was. The real in my life has been stripped away. I can’t fathom how I’m supposed to survive.
No, I know how. I’m going to find out who did this to my Lee. And I swear I’m going to make them pay.
Fueled by anger, I make my way into the kitchen just in time for Kylie’s—no, I guess it’s my—cell to ring. When I read the caller ID, I recognize Carys’s name. My voice is dead when I answer. “Hey.”
“I’m not accusing you of anything,” she begins carefully.
“That’s a great way to start a conversation,” I drawl sarcastically.
“You’ll understand why in a moment, Leanne. But is it possible you maybe, possibly mind you, were responsible for your sister not appearing in the tabloids as frequently as say, Beckett Miller?”
