by Jack Parker
"Me?" Georgie held a hand to her chest. "Oh, no. It didn't have a thing to do with me. It was Aleksei I couldn't pull you off of."
"…Ludkov?"
"Certainly. I've never seen such a passionate kiss before. It was quite sweet."
Victor could re-taste the vomit in his mouth instantly. "Are you fucking…?!" He stared numbly back at her when she suddenly cracked. Then she was sputtering laughter, turning away with the back of her hand held to her lips. Victor reared back incredulously. "You're fucking with me."
"I couldn't resist. I couldn't. Your face, oh…"
"You bitch."
"You nearly believed me. What does that say about you, eh?"
Victor pointed at her. "Hey, I'm no stranger to my sexuality, okay? Trust me—if I had even the slightest interest in other guys I would've done something about it by now."
"Well, now we're even for the lesbian remark, aren't we?"
Victor eyed her petulantly for a moment longer until a chuckle finally forced its way up. "Yeah, go to hell, Faraday."
Georgie raised an eyebrow, picking up a wayward mug and turning back to the kitchen. "In due time, Mr. Scott. If I recall, I'm to save you a seat."
Victor shook his head and smirked as he watched her walk away.
________________________________________
Emery had been so certain that the last time he'd set foot in Hunter Eaton's mansion had indeed been the very last time. Walking into it again after Hunter's death felt eerie…haunted, in a way. Like he was somewhere he wasn't welcome. Didn't belong. But it occurred to him, with a mixed feeling of wonder and revulsion, that this was his house now. He was about to own it. When he and Kurt were escorted in and led up the stairs his stomach took a horrid flip. Was he really about to be shown into the study where Hunter had shot himself? Where his corpse had presumably sat for hours before being cleared away? He didn't think he could take it. He didn't realize he was rooted to the top of the steps until Kurt's hand was stroking his arm. Then he jumped forward with a start and followed the housemaid into the mansion's small library.
"It's a dreadful thing, poor lad. I'm so sorry," the maid said. Emery hadn't realized until just then that she'd been speaking to him.
"That's fine," he muttered. His eyes lingered on the closed door to the study before he went into the library to meet John Alcott.
Alcott was a spindly sort of fellow, not much to him but a naturally cheerful sort of face and graying hair. He stood as soon as Emery entered the room and extended a hand. "Hello Emery. How are you?"
"Uh, I'm alright," Emery said, shaking the hand. "Considering."
"Of course," Alcott nodded, glancing at Kurt. "Terribly sorry to have to meet you under these circumstances. I…wish I had any explanation for you. I was the last person he spoke to and I didn't see this coming. I really didn't."
Emery shrugged. "You can't be blamed."
Alcott nodded, then motioned to the table beside them at a couple of chairs. "Please, sit. There isn't much to go over. Hunter was a very thorough man and he was determined you be looked after. Only a few signatures required, really."
Emery slowly sank into a chair, Kurt beside him stealing wary glances here and there. "Why did he keep me on as his heir?"
Alcott looked up as he was sitting. "Beg pardon?"
Emery shook his head. "Surely there must have been someone else he could have left it all to. We were estranged. We had a…falling out—I didn't think he'd ever want to see me again."
"Ah," Alcott nodded, leaning his elbows onto the table and pausing in thought. "I did wonder a bit. You haven't seen your stepfather in years, have you? At least we can't find a trace of you in England since 2014. May I ask why?"
Emery took a moment to collect his thoughts. So apparently no one on Hunter's staff had mentioned the fact he'd visited here only a matter of days ago. Perhaps they were paid handsomely to cover up his more insidious dealings for him. Emery cleared his throat. "As I said, we…grew apart. I…came out to him as a homosexual. He wouldn't have it. I left England for Canada with my lover." Emery looked to Kurt, wracking his brain a moment. "Mr. Garrett here."
Alcott leaned back, understanding seeming to wash over his features with a tinge of sympathy. "I see. Yes. I suppose that does explain a bit, doesn't it? That must have been a difficult time for you, him being your only parent."
Emery stared at the table's surface and tried to pull his act, but he could feel it come out rigid. "He didn't attempt to contact me. I assumed that I was disowned. I came home when I heard the news of his death, but I didn't expect this."
"He must have regretted how things were left. I can't imagine what must have been going through the man's head, but I suppose those with no family at all tend to find themselves feeling hopeless. His parents have long since passed, all of his relatives. His wife—your poor mother. She died before they had a chance to extend the family any further. And on top of it all he drove you off."
Emery couldn't lift his gaze. "Yes. I truly left him with nothing."
He could feel Kurt bristle beside him suddenly. "Is it typically the solicitor's duty to speculate upon the deceased, or is there business to square away?"
A flash of startled guilt washed across Alcott's face and he sat up straighter.
Emery held a hand up. "It's alright, Alex. Please, Mr. Alcott, continue."
"I in no way meant to imply…" Alcott started, shuffling quickly through papers. "All I meant was that he loved you. You ought to know that in case it brings you any comfort. However he remarked on your inclinations," he glanced up at Kurt, "he neither dismissed nor forgot you."
Emery knew this man was only doing his best to ease his conscience, but it only made it all the worse. He resisted the urge to grind his teeth and sighed. "Yes, alright. What do I need to sign?"
Alcott began pushing papers at him. "Here and here. Just here for this form. This is for the house. This is for a few other properties he owns in the London area. This one is for the transfer of funds from his personal account. Everything is to be in your name."
Emery picked up the pen and looked down at the first paper. With a sense of self-betrayal he scrawled down the name Emery Eaton onto the lines indicated and dropped the pen onto the desk. "Is that it then?"
"Just about," Alcott agreed, pulling up a few more forms. "There's also the matter of the other money."
Emery's eyes shot up. The other money? As in the secret part of his fortune? Emery had thought that well-hidden. He shifted nervously and tried to play it cool. "Other money?"
"Yes," Alcott nodded. "You were aware, weren't you?"
"No. I don't know what you're talking about."
Alcott's expression grew strangely sympathetic and he sifted again through his papers before gently plucking one out. "I'm sorry, Emery, I thought you knew. I'm speaking about your mother's account."
Emery felt his heart clench. The act melted off him. "…What?"
Alcott carefully pushed the paper towards him. "Yes. When she married your stepfather her wages went into a savings account on your behalf. After finding her diagnosis to be terminal she set it up for you to inherit on your eighteenth birthday. I assumed you'd simply never touched it in light of being fully provided for already. Did Hunter never tell you?"
"No," Emery croaked numbly as he stared down at the nonsense of legal jargon and numbers before him.
Alcott let him absorb this for a moment before going on. "She also had a rather considerable life insurance policy that was directed to the account on her death, and a bit I believe she carried over from a small savings your father had put aside for you since your birth. You were meant to receive this money long ago. It's accumulated quite a bit of interest over the last eight years."
Emery gingerly picked up the form and looked it over. "…This is nearly a million pounds…"
"It pales in comparison to the rest of your fortune, but it's yours nonetheless."
He felt gutted. Why had Hunter never told him? Probabl
y because he didn't want Emery thinking of his mother. Didn't want anyone to muscle in on his providing. He felt both contempt and pity for Hunter in that moment. Contempt because he'd hidden his parents' final loving gesture to him, pity because how pathetic must a man be to feel jealousy over his relationship with his own parents? It was a mere undercurrent to the surge of agony he felt at the moment, however, looking at his mother's name in print.
"Are you alright, son?"
Emery's eyes drifted up to Alcott and he lied in the form of a mute nod. Then he signed the form and sat back. He could feel Kurt's eyes on him but he refused to look over for fear of bursting into tears like an idiot.
"I think that's just it, then," Alcott said as he collected the signed papers. "The house is yours. I imagine it a monumental task to go through all the things in here. If you need assistance, I'm available to you free of charge. I have contacts and can see what I can have appraised if you wish to sell it. Anything I can do to lighten the burden a bit."
"That's very kind of you, Mr. Alcott," Emery said quietly. "I don't see that I have use for any of it. Perhaps I'll begin making donations."
"A generous notion," Alcott said. "Though you might want to go through a bit of it. Surely you've still got some personal possessions here. Things of sentimental value."
Emery shook his head. "None that I care about."
Alcott rubbed his chin a moment before standing. "Emery, come with me a moment. There's something I'd like to show you."
Emery slowly stood in confusion and looked to Kurt, who stood with him, keeping close. They followed Alcott down the hall and to a room that Emery knew to be his old bedroom, but couldn't imagine why. Alcott opened the door and gestured inside. It was filled with boxes. Emery's eyes scanned them all curiously. "What is all this?"
"This is where Hunter stored the remainder of your mother's things. Everything that she had tucked away. Her clothes, her pictures, her photo albums and such. It's also where he left all of his pictures of you. Perhaps it was all simply too painful for him to look at, but it does make it easy for you to find what you may want to hold on to."
Emery stared into the room with growing despair and nodded again. "Thank you."
"Of course. Is there anything else you need of me?"
"No," Emery said.
"Then I'll leave you to it. Do you still remember the security code to lock up?"
"Yes."
Alcott took one last look around the room before awkwardly patting Emery's shoulder. "My condolences, lad. I'll be in touch." With that he offered a polite, if stilted, nod to Kurt and wandered off.
Emery remained staring into the room.
"You look pale," Kurt noted gently.
"I'm fine," Emery said, his eyes staying on the boxes. "Kurt, would you…would you mind waiting for me downstairs for a bit? I won't be long."
He could feel resistance in the way Kurt hesitated, but he knew he wouldn't be refused. "…Take what time you need. I won't disturb you."
He felt a little bad as he heard Kurt's footfalls descending the hall towards the stairway, but he simply had to do this alone. He didn't want to be comforted. He didn't want to be told it was alright. At the moment all he wanted to do was wallow. Emery stepped into the room and approached a stack of boxes. Some were labeled. Shoes, books, summer clothes, scarves…in the back corner he found a stash of older ones. The cardboard was worn, a few were lopsided and a bit crushed from years of being stacked upon. A small one at the top read "Emmy's Books" and he leaned forward to peer into it. His science fiction novellas. The ones his father used to buy for him. He pulled one out, tattered and bent, and looked it over. In the inside cover his six year old self had messily carved his name into the page with a pencil. Emery Leem Fletcher. The little twat that he was misspelled his own bloody middle name. Emery let out a weak laugh and set it back in the box.
There were a great many boxes with his name on them. He opened another to find loads of school work and crafts—crumpled nonsense and the kind of tat only a loving mother would bother keeping around. He didn't remember any of it. He reached for a few. A poem he once wrote about dragons. A letter to Saint Nick. Under those was a father's day note that he picked up with a frown and read over. He was probably about five when he wrote it.
I love my dad because he is the best dad. He shows me card tricks and we play dinosaurs. He says that one day I'll be as big as him and we can share a pint, but I don't like pints and I don't think they're good. I like bananas.
Emery snorted. Way to stay on subject, little Em, he thought dully, setting it down. In more stacks of papers he found a postcard. It was from his father on some trip, it looked like. Emery vaguely remembered. He was seven and his father had left with a couple of old uni mates to Ireland for a few days. It sounded fun and Emery remembered being disappointed that he couldn't go along with him on what he realized in retrospect was a pub crawl, but his father promised to tell him all about it. He'd received this postcard almost immediately.
"Emery,
I promised to write, didn't I? Ireland isn't nearly as fun as I thought. I haven't seen a single leprechaun since I got here and I'm downright skeptical at this point about returning home with a pot of gold. I found something nice for you, though. (No, it isn't a dog, and you're driving your poor father bonkers with the asking by the way!) Be a good chap and I'll bring it back with me. Kiss Mum double for me. Tell her she's the best wife and Mum in the world, because if you don't, then how will she know? Be back soon!
Love, Dad"
Emery couldn't remember for the life of him what his father brought back. He stopped digging through that box and set it aside. Beneath it was one labeled "Photos". He stared at it for a long while in contemplation. He didn't know if he could handle it. But he had to. Considering the way things were going, it might be his last chance. He knelt down and slowly unfolded the cardboard flaps to reveal a space packed with bound photo albums. His parents' wedding photos. He cracked that one open to stare in wonder at them for a moment. How they were so painfully young. Barely out of their teen years, happy and carefree, covered in cake and rice. He traced his fingers down his mother's image and could see himself so clearly in her features.
The next album was more difficult. It began with pictures of Emery, a naked and disheveled infant with all the charm of a worm, still virtually featureless. His father leaning over him into the shot, mimicking his crying face. A woman he thought he recognized as his deceased aunt holding him in her arms. He flipped through the baby pictures to when he was older. One or two, at the beach, sitting on a towel between his mother's legs with a plastic bucket on his head. A shot of them all together on the couch of their home in Brighton, Emery eating ice cream, Emery coloring pictures, Emery petting chickens. Every moment of his childhood, catalogued and placed carefully, collected and cared for. A declaration of undying affection for a little boy with promise and potential and opportunity. And here he was. Here was what he'd amounted to.
Maybe this was what Hunter felt like in the moments before his suicide. If Emery didn't have Kurt, what would he possibly have to live for? And just looking at these people, these normal, law-abiding, harmless little people who had made him, he felt like a complete degenerate. His father had never killed anyone. His mother had never stolen. They never pretended to be others, they didn't lie, they didn't needlessly hurt people. He never meant to turn out this way. He never thought he would. Part of him would give anything just to be that stupid little boy again who couldn't spell his own name and liked bananas.
Emery sat back against the boxes, head in his hands, and cried as quietly as he could manage. For Jerome. For Cynthia. For Hunter, even. And for Emery.
* * *
Kurt didn't know what was going through Emery's head, but he knew better than to probe too intently when he saw him march down the stairs half an hour later looking exhausted. He wanted to say something but couldn't think of a single thing. This situation was entirely unfair. How many times must Eme
ry be dragged over the coals like this? It was unhealthy for him, having his wounds constantly reopened and dwelt upon. He would never be able to heal this way. Emery touched his arm when they met and offered a strained smile that was likely meant to be reassuring, but Kurt was unconvinced. He allowed Emery to say nothing as they filed into the car and began the drive back to their current safehouse.
When they reentered the flat, its other two occupants stared at them curiously, both seated at the table eating meals. Victor was the first to speak. "How'd it go?"
"Fine," Emery said. "No trouble at all, really."
Having become evidently perceptive towards him over their time together, Victor pushed. "You okay?"
"Mm," Emery replied casually as he pulled a cigarette from his pocket and stuck it between his lips, then excused himself to the balcony for a smoke. Kurt watched him leave and slowly set his keys on the counter top closest to him.
"So there were no questions asked? No nothing?" Victor asked, standing up and wandering over to Kurt with a glance after Emery.
"There didn't seem to be suspicion, no," Kurt confirmed.
Victor shook his head. "Alright, well for what it's worth, I'm pretty sure I can get ahold of the equipment we need. Problem is I need money."
"How much?"
"About fifty thousand for the safest route. I need a professional van that's both innocuous and untraceable. A new computer. Some more mics. Ritzy threads."
Kurt didn't argue. He had always been able to trust Victor with the details and even failing trust he wasn't much use in the nit and grit of electronics himself. "You'll have it."
"Then I'll get it done. I'm gonna shower off this hangover sweat and hit the shops. You guys should lay low while I'm out."
Kurt agreed with a nod and watched Victor head off before turning back to observe Emery through the glass. He noted immediately that Georgie was sitting at the table doing the same. He stared at her warily and she seemed to get the hint, as she turned to regard him with the gall to feign innocence. She looked away after a moment, then stood carefully. "Would you like something to eat, Mr. Gabler? I've made lunch."