The Inheritance (Volume Three)

by Reed, Zelda

  I trap my breath in my chest and count the length of the sound. One, two, seventy-eight seconds until Chris (I assume) breaks away.

  His voice is low, barely above a whisper. “Let me take you to bed.”

  I almost gag. Take you to bed? Has he been stealing lines from Jane Austen novels?

  “We can’t,” Ashleigh says. I can almost see her ducking her head, a light blush crawling up her cheeks.

  “We can,” Chris says.

  “No. Not in there,” she says. A pair of feet shuffle against the floor. The couch sighs beneath a weight. “Not in our room.”

  In the darkness of my bedroom, my imagination runs with the soft sounds they emit. Like cats they mewl between kisses, they scratch at each other’s skin, they tear at their clothing, nip at their necks, lick at their wounds, and arch their backs. In truth, I can only hear the occasional whimper, embarrassingly loud and quickly hushed, but when I close my eyes the sounds amplify to a deafening noise.

  Ashleigh sinks down onto Chris’s cock and rides him in my father’s living room, fucks him on my father’s couch.

  I bet it’s liberating, fucking someone between the four walls my father used to pin up other women. Officer McManus in the hallway towards his room, his office assistant against the windows leading towards the bar. Despite her guilt, I bet my father’s face pops up in her mind and she tilts her head back and smiles. Grinning towards the heavens. Take that, you asshole.

  Her moans grow louder and the sound twists in my stomach. Does she know I’m home or is she past that point of ecstasy; the marker where you no longer care about the rest of the world, it’s only you and the person beneath you.

  Chris is quiet. The occasional groan escapes his chest but I imagine he’s focused on watching Ashleigh move atop him, her hips swinging in a slow circle, her breasts heaving beneath her dress.

  Her breath quickens, small squeaks popping out of her throat like a deflating blow-up doll. She’s close but Chris finishes first, a three-second groan drawing out of his stomach. Ashleigh follows behind him, her moan light and airy like her voice.

  Seconds tick by like minutes, silence stretching between the two of them as they collect their breaths.

  Chris shatters it. He says, “Hey…Don’t…What’s wrong?”

  The guilt in my stomach grows towards my mouth, a small smile tugging at the corners.

  Straddling Chris’s lap, Ashleigh bends forward and sobs against his shoulder.

  Eight

  Alanis calls at eight a.m. “Did you sort everything out with the property?”

  “Sort of,” I say, stretching in bed. I’m used to being functional at this hour, but during the summertime I force myself to sleep in.

  “What the fuck does that mean?”

  “The property doesn’t belong to me. My father gave it to Neal.”

  Alanis is silent for a moment. Then, “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. That’s what Martin told me.”

  She curses beneath her breath. “Alright. This is a good thing. I’m going to get the papers from Neal and then come and get you. Be ready by one.”

  I feel young for fretting over what I should wear, like a teenage girl deciding on an outfit for her first date. I push sixteen-year-old-Caitlin’s clothes to the right, focusing on the outfits I brought to Chicago. The ones washed in dark colors and long fabric. Respectable clothes that make me look several years older than I am.

  I choose the black dress I wore to my father’s funeral, plucking the same pair of shoes from my suitcase.

  In the bathroom I have a moment of hysteria, thinking of how fitting this all is. Lee Geon is dangerous. He could kill me without a second thought. There I would lay, on the dingy floor of the Chinese restaurant, dressed in the perfect funeral garb, the midnight fabric soaking up my blood.

  Ashleigh and Chris are nowhere to be found. The condo’s empty, silence stretching from one end to the other, the living room cleaned up from last night’s antics.

  I have breakfast in the kitchen and try not to think about Neal in his boxers, slaving over a pan of eggs, on the morning I knew I loved him.

  Neal Dietrich.

  The man who does nothing but lie to me.

  ______

  Around one there’s a knock at the door. A knot grows in my throat as I grab my purse from my bedroom and slip on my shoes in the foyer.

  It’s time to face Lee Geon but I’m not yet ready.

  I pass the mirror by the door and instantly pick up on my fleeting confidence. My shoulders are rounded forward, my lips quivering nervously. My fingers curl into my palm to stop the shaking.

  I can’t face Lee in this condition. I’ll vomit all over his shoes.

  “I can’t do this,” I say, whipping open the front door.

  Suzanne is standing on the other side, her blonde hair pulled into a loose bun, held together by sparkling chopsticks. She plasters on a wide grin when our eyes meet.

  “You can’t do what?” she says, voice cheery as she pushes the door open and steps inside.

  She smells like peppermint and Chanel No. 5, a perfume she first bought when we were fifteen and obsessed with silver-aged starlets. She throws me a look over her shoulder, balancing her purse between the curve of her elbow, her wrist flicked back.

  “Don’t just stand there,” she says. “Close the door.”

  “What are you doing here?” I ask.

  Suzanne gingerly bends at the knees, setting her purse on the floor before she extends her arms out. Her grin drops from her lips and is replaced with a calculated frown.

  “I heard what happened to Neal,” she says, pouting.

  She wraps her arms around me without warning, our chests pressing together, her chunky necklace cool against my skin. She buries her nose in my neck, nuzzles it there like my mother.

  “Why didn’t you call me?”

  Maybe because we haven’t been friends for years. “I don’t know,” I say, pulling away from her.

  Her hands curl around my shoulders, her pout extending from the top of my head to my shoes.

  “You look terrible,” she says. “You poor thing.”

  Against my better judgment I catch another glance of myself in the mirror. I look fine.

  “Justin sends his condolences,” she says, pushing a strand of loose hair behind her ear, shamelessly flashing her ring. “He wanted to come along but there was an emergency at one of the breweries and he had to drive all the way to Wisconsin.” Suzanne turns on her spiked black heels, venturing into the living room. “I was thinking we could spend the day together. The way we used to before you decided to go to college.”

  “I actually --”

  She holds up a finger. “We could go shopping, buy you a new,” her smile spreads thin across her lips, “dress. Then we can get lunch, grab a pitcher of mimosas, take a walk in the park, clear your head of all this tragedy.”

  Suzanne leans against the arm of the couch and turns down the corners of her eyes, trying her best to emote sympathy but there’s a manipulative flame that grows inside of her. I, like a moth, recognize it. She’s a leech, desperate to sink her teeth into me and feed off my sadness to build herself up. I’m sorry your boyfriend is probably dead but my husband and I are thinking about having kids, isn’t that great? She’s carried this trait since we were teenagers, though she’s gotten better at hiding it.

  “I can’t,” I say, forcing a smile. “I have plans.”

  Her shoulders straighten. “Plans to do what?”

  “I don’t think that’s any of your business.”

  Suzanne cocks her head to the side. “You don’t have to be rude,” she says, spitting out a laugh. “I was just asking a question.”

  She steps forward, her heels sliding across the wooden floor.

  “I haven’t seen you in so long —”

  “You saw me last week.”

  Another laugh flies from Suzanne’s throat. “You were a
lways so funny,” she says, her words cutting against her teeth. “That’s what Justin liked about you.” The corners of her mouth pinches into a smirk.

  The front door knob rattles before there’s a rapt at the door. Suzanne raises her eyebrow.

  Alanis is on the other side, one hand curved around the outline of her gun, poking out of her dress. This one’s navy blue and flows past her knees, thick like the black leather boots on her feet.

  She glances over my shoulder and spots Suzanne. “You ready to go?” she asks.

  “Hi,” Suzanne says, marching towards the door. Her extended hand reaches to the side of me. “I don’t think we’ve met.”

  Alanis plasters on a tight smile. “You must be Ashleigh,” she says, ignoring her hand.

  Suzanne’s fingers curl into her palm. “No. I’m not.”

  “Oh,” Alanis says. She looks to me. “Who the hell is she?”

  Suzanne spits an indignant noise from the back of her throat. “I’m her best friend,” she says.

  Alanis rolls her eyes and taps the gun at her thigh. I imagined her pulling the gun on Suzanne, her blue eyes growing wide as she stares down the barrel.

  “Let’s go,” she says, turning on her heels and heading down the hall.

  “I’m sorry,” I say to Suzanne, grabbing my purse and stepping into the hall.

  She stares at me, mouth dropped open. “But I cleared my whole afternoon for this.”

  “Maybe some other time,” I say, waving my hands. Get the fuck out.

  A sharp noise grows in the back of her throat, matching the pitch of her heels against the floor. The elevator doors ding open. Alanis steps inside. I lock the condo door and rush to meet her, Suzanne hot on my heels.

  “Some other time,” Suzanne says, testing the words on her tongue. “You know, I’m very busy, Caitlin. I can’t just drop everything for you.”

  “Aren’t you a blogger?” I ask, stepping inside the elevator. “Don’t you set your own schedule?”

  “Yes,” she says, tucking her hair behind her ear, flashing her ring for Alanis to see. “But Justin springs plans on me all the time and you know I can’t tell him ‘no’.” Her fingers tighten around the strap of her bag as she looks Alanis up and down. “I’ll tell you what, why don’t I come with the two of you?”

  “No,” Alanis says.

  Suzanne smiles tightly. “I wasn’t asking you,” she says. Then to me, “What do you think?”

  The elevator doors slide open at the lobby. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

  A wave of anger flashes across Suzanne’s face. I remember that look. The bratty teenage pout, the flicker of a threat in her eyes and the small sliver of fear that used to run through me. I’m too old for that now, to quiver beneath her lipstick covered mouth and mascaraed eyes.

  “Fine,” she says, following us to the revolving door. “But don’t come crying to me when they find your boyfriend’s body washed up on the beach.”

  Nine

  “Just follow my lead.” Alanis tells me this as she parks the car across the street from Yo Jin’s Chinese Restaurant.

  The front door is covered in thick bars, white like the dirty awning hanging over it. There’s a purple carpet, leading to the door, covered in black and brown footprints, dirt and grime tattooed on the fabric.

  I’ve never been to the South Side before. It’s more desolate than I imagined, quieter too. On the news they paint it up to be a war zone, filled with the sound of gun shots and mother’s crying over the bleeding bodies of their sons. Drug deals take place on every corner and girls like me will certainly be attacked on sight. I’ve prepared myself for the worst and yet there’s no one on our street. The businesses have been boarded up, the train tracks are rusted and unused.

  Alanis confidently strolls across the street. She’s brought a black leather jacket that hangs over her arm, covering the bulky gun at her thigh. In my purse she’s stuffed an envelope full of cash and the papers to the property Neal signed this morning. I don’t ask how he reacted when he realized the property was in his name and she doesn’t bring it up.

  The restaurant’s door opens easily. Alanis leads the way into a small space with micro-tables, lines of booths, and sea foam green paint. The carpet’s as purple and stained as the strip outside, the air smells of seafood and tea. A half-wall topped with murky, decorated glass blocks us from seeing into the restaurant.

  A round of laughter is stiffened by a closed door.

  A small Asian woman greets us with a lazy smile and empty hands. “I’m sorry,” she says, waving us away. “We’re closed.”

  Alanis digs into my purse. She pulls out the wad of cash, fans it in her hands. “Are you?” she says.

  The woman glances down at the money, counts it quickly in her head. Her smile grows and she grabs two menus from the kiosk set up against the wall.

  Laughter seeps from the other side of the restaurant. A faint wave of cigarettes moves through the air, clouding over our heads, painting the room in a gray haze. We order two glasses of water and the woman leaves us in our booth, the cheap pleather sticking to my legs in the heat of the room.

  I lean over the table. “What do we do now?”

  “Now,” Alanis says, flipping open the menu. “We wait.”

  We don’t wait for long.

  The door to the back room cracks open, voices, laughter and smoke spilling out. A few foreign words are exchanged – a man and a woman arguing behind the walls that weave through the restaurant like a maze. The door closes and my stomach leaps into my throat. I can use that glass of water.

  At the far side of our portion of the restaurant, an Asian man rounds the corner. His hair’s slicked neatly back, black like the color of his fitted suit. His jacket’s open, pushed behind his hip, revealing the gun settled there.

  Alanis throws a glance over her shoulder. Her hand slides beneath the table. I don’t need to duck my head to know she’s fingering her gun, ready in case he waltzes over and shoots me.

  “Ladies,” he says, English rolling perfectly off his tongue. “If you two are looking for good Chinese food, you should try Ming’s Palace, it’s just three streets over.”

  Alanis raises an eyebrow. “Thanks but we want to eat here.”

  A false chuckle floats from his throat. “This place is good,” he says. “But I’m sorry to tell you, we’re closed.”

  “No you’re not,” Alanis says, looking up at him.

  His mouth straightens in a serious line.

  Alanis closes her menu and sits back in the booth, comfortable and intimidating. “We’re here to see Lee.”

  The man stands a bit taller. “Lee who?”

  “Lee Geon,” she says. “Tell him Caitlin Wheeler wants to make a deal.”

  His eyes flicker towards me. “Very well,” he says.

  My stomach settles in my gut, knotting nervously at the base.

  “Stop shaking,” Alanis says. “We have nothing to worry about.”

  The waitress prattles over with our water. She removes our menus from the table and turns away without taking our orders. The jig is up. She knows why we’re really here.

  Lee Geon rounds the corner and brings with him a group of well-dressed men. Six of them form two lines of three, marching on his heels, their eyes fixed on mine. There are no gun in holsters but pistols in each hand, the shiny black weapons glinting beneath the shitty restaurant light. Two of his guards stuff themselves in the booth across from us. Two sit in the booth behind me, two in the booth behind Alanis. The remaining pair stand on either side of Lee, their fingers inches away from the trigger.

  Lee’s older than my mental image of him, a wealth of wrinkles etched into the corners of his mouth and eyes, though his hair contains its youthful color. His eyes are slightly sunken into his face, black like his suit and hazy with faux-kindness.

  “Alanis, is it?” he says. “I never thought we would run into each other again.”

>   “Neither did I,” she says, sitting up straight. “But I can’t sit this one out.”

  Lee nods, his hands crossed gently in front of his lap. “I understand. This is all very personal for you, isn’t it? But I don’t appreciate you bringing a weapon to a conversation.” His eyes travel down to her lap.

  Alanis looks around. “I could say the same thing about you.”

  “Put your gun on the table,” he says.

  Alanis complies, placing her gun on the table next to her drink. The man to the right of Lee snatches and dismantles it, throwing the pieces to the man behind me.

  Lee releases a long sigh. “I feel safer now, don’t you?”

  Alanis plasters on a tight smile.

  The waitress bustles over with a chair, setting it at the head of our booth. Lee takes a seat. He smells of spicy, expensive cologne with a hint of bourbon on his tongue.

  He holds his hand out to me. “We haven’t had the pleasure of formally meeting,” he says. There are three rings on his fingers – a wedding band and two gold bands covered in diamonds and colored jewels.

  I shake his hand. “Caitlin Wheeler.”

  His hand tightens around mine. “I know who you are,” he says, his thumb caressing the back of my hand. “Julian’s girl. You are much prettier now that you’re older.”

  An unexpected anger flares inside of me. What the fuck did you just say? I bite down on my tongue.

  Lee stares at me, eyes slightly narrow, daring me to say something smart, to give him a reason to put a bullet in my skull.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  He releases my hand with a pleased smile.

  “Now.” He claps his hands together. “Let’s get down to business. You’re here about Neal, aren’t you?” He’s looking at me.

  “Yes,” I say, voice wavering slightly. Beneath the table, Alanis kicks my ankle. I clear my throat. “I’ve heard that you’re upset with him.”

  Lee’s mouth opens wide as he laughs, his eyes disappearing beneath the folds of his skin. Around him, his guards chuckle lightly.

  He slams his hand on the table. I jump.