Page 22 of Trailer Park Billionaire
“I’m glad we understand each other,” I say, unsure what else to say, and gently press my hands against his chest to steer him back to the main aisle. “Then let’s get to business, shall we? How about we go through the inventory list, you pick which works you’d like to see, and I’ll retrieve them while you wait.”
“Sounds very efficient. Let’s do it.”
I boot up the computer on a large desk in a corner and open the database that contains every single painting, photograph, sculpture or installation the museum owns.
Ben leans casually against the desk, watching as I scroll through endless lines of inventory. “So,” he eventually says after having inspected a few pieces already, “is this your dream job then?”
I glance at him, then back at the screen, unsure if this is one of those questions you answer politely or honestly. “Sort of,” I say, eloquently, and sit through the silence that follows.
When I don’t elaborate, he does it for me. “You enjoy working with art because the art doesn’t ask dumb questions like‘Is this your dream job?’.But you’re less enthusiastic about dealing with people whose only achievement is being born into money.” He points to one of the listings to indicate interest, then just continues talking. “I get that. Sorry to add to your list of things to deal with.” It’s like he’s having a conversation with me all on his own now. “If there’s anything I can do to… I don’t know, make your work easier or lighten your load, just say the word, alright?”
I click to open a new tab, pretending to be immersed in the search, so I don’t have to think about everything else rushing in, all the things I need to take care of to get my grandpa sorted, the paperwork, picking up his ashes, what to do with his belongings. And that works like a charm for a while—until we get to the letter F and the nameFrame, Edwardpops up on the screen. My cursor lingers there a second longer than on the others, which doesn’t go unnoticed.
“That’s him, isn’t it?” Mr. Lyon asks carefully.
I nod as the air in the climate-controlled room suddenly feels thick and gritty, my mouth dry, and my breathing shallow. My stomach twists into a knot once again.
“Well,” Mr. Lyon continues, still cautious, “we’ve got two options here then: we could either bravely face our fears, trauma, mortality and look at your grandpa’s painting, his legacy. Or we could be grown-ups and just pretend we didn’t see it. Bury it deep, deep down in ourselves, and act like it doesn’t exist. You know, until we’re ready to… deal withwhatever remains.”
Him quoting me back to myself doesn’t go unnoticed. I meet his gaze—his eyes are kind, his voice stripped of sarcasm. I letmine drift to his neck, watching the steady pulse beneath his skin. It’s calming, in a strange way. The air still tastes like dust, but at least my breath steadies. “I think you may have missed your calling, Mr. Lyon. Maybe instead of becoming rich, you should have become a therapist.”
“Richandpowerful,” he adds with a wink, understanding right away that I don’t want to look at my grandpa’s work. “Now—tell me. What’s the ugliest painting in your collection?”
8
BEN
“Time for Plan B,” I say once I hop back into the RV where Alexei is waiting. “He wouldn’t take my money. Said ‘it’s a crematorium, not a drive-thru’. Apparently, only next of kin or the executor of the will can pick them up.”
My friend lets out a sigh of relief, then starts the car. “Thank God. This was a terrible idea anyway—a bad omen. Let’s go home and think of a better plan.”
“Oh, no,” I respond, turning the car off again. “We’re still stealing the ashes. We just need a different approach.”
“Didn’t you hear what I just said? Stealing the ashes of a dead person is a bad omen. More than an omen—it’s bad. Very bad!”
“You never struck me as the superstitious type, Alex.”
“I’m not! Which should tell you just how bad of an idea this really is. Even a rational person like me is saying so.”
For a second, I question my plan and whether I’m completely losing it. But then I picture myself back at the museum, standing in front of that painting again, next to her. “No, we need the ashes. You should’ve seen her. This is our way in. And coincidentally, it’s also the right thing to do.”
“But aren’t we already in?” Alexei asks even more exasperated now.
He’s right, of course. Technically. But he doesn’t know what I know.
“You don’t understand,” I say. “I just need you to trust me on this, alright?”
My friend takes a deep breath, flails both arms dramatically, then decides to say nothing.
“I’m glad we agree. Now move over—I’ve got an idea.”
He releases another deep sigh before reluctantly getting up, sliding into the passenger seat, and plopping down with a heavy thud. I barely move in time before his butt can use me as a cushion. Then I drive us about twenty minutes down the road to an underpass we saw on the way here. I hop out of the car with Alex close behind.
“You can wait here,” I say over my shoulder as I slide down a steep slope of grass.
“And wait for you to get stabbed, you mean?”
I leap over a makeshift fence of wooden crates and barbed wire and land in an old can of paint, filled with a mix of mud and stagnant water. I shake it off my foot, leaving my shoes covered in dirt. The muddy water seeps into my socks immediately. “Fine, come along then. If I get stabbed, feel free to use my ashes to finish the plan.”
