Page 358 of My Sweet Dollie, You Have to Love Me
Returning, I say, “I take it you’re not gonna help me look for his wallet.”
She makes one of those funny noises that only dogs do.
I scan the morbidly colored room, opening the drapes before I do anything else. Light attacks my eyes. This room is directly in line with the sun, despite all the trees surrounding the house.
Careening slowly, I take in every inch of his space. There’s no wallet on his dresser, nor is it on either of his nightstands.
I open the drawer closest to me, nearest to the side I found him on.
Bingo.
The worn faux leather flaps open to reveal a driver’s license with the cutest ID photo.
Too many coins fall out as I lift it, all landing on some kind of letter below.
The words, Last Will and Testament stand out. Fear lifts it into the air, fear that looks a lot like my hand with its painted nails.
Was he planning his death all along?
I blink away the thought, my eyes landing on more words, on an address that he’s become the sole owner of.
It’s that house.
My blood runs cold. Running away from that place in the snow, I had no idea the house address. There are no memories of numbers on the door or signs nearby, but we found it years later. Revisited it behind the safety of a laptop screen, in the hopes of finding some kind of closure.
Ambrose was the one to close the page, seeing the blurred-out face of a man we both knew too well as he loitered around a newer-looking car. He deemed then and there that we’d spent enough time in that place, seen enough of that man.
And now, he owns his house.
It’s like a cruel joke.
I know it’s wrong, but I keep reading the letter not addressed to me, taking in words and choppy sentences from a dying woman who claimed Ambrose was her only living friend. How she was sorry for the things her husband had done to him and his little sister. How she wanted to help by giving him access to all his awful memories with a key and house deed.
Okay, so that last part isn’t exactly what she wrote.
Chuckles’ wife suggested selling it and using the money to start a better future.
A better future that’ll be tainted by blood money. Blood Ambrose shed while he unknowingly earned it.
I’ve read enough.
Stuffing the letter back in his drawer, I crease it a little more than it originally was, but I don’t give it another thought.
I don’t give that clown another thought, or his weird fucking wife, who stood by and let it happen.
I close the drawer, needing to shut away that part of my life while I’m here alone. And I step out of the room, snapping my fingers for Bubbles to follow.
CHAPTER 80
Ambrose—present day
Six hours to go until I see Dollie.
And it’s been close to fucking forty-two that I’ve sat in this bed fuming. Plastering on a calm persona while dealing with three separate psychologists has been... difficult. The bed literally vibrates when I think of Shane and the shit he’s gotten away with. And that happens every time my thoughts wander back to Dollie, which is constantly the case.
I keep my lips tight and nod along as the doc tells me he’s taking another bathroom break.
When I got brought in here and met with the familiar face of my regular psychologist, I explained that I could use words now and explained why. As always, there was no judgment from Emma Harrison. Not even when I mentioned being in love with my sister.
