Page 36 of Trailer Park Billionaire
She presses a trembling hand to her forehead, as if trying to push the memory back inside.
I swallow against the lump in my throat and take another big sip of the whiskey—which immediately sends me into another coughing fit.
Robyn snickers a little and dabs her tears with a tissue.
“Say, and this might sound a little odd, but did you notice anything strange around his apartment? Did he maybe mention something out of the ordinary?”
Did he meet with a bunch of violent gangsters who now want more money from me than I’ll be able to save in the next ten years?
Robyn shakes her head slowly, her brain obviously processing the question. “You don’t think… You don’t think someone could have killed him? I mean, I was there, so… no. Maybe poison?” she offers hesitantly.
“No, no,” I say quickly. I have considered something like it, but it just doesn’t seem like those guys’ handiwork. They’re not exactly the subtle kind. Plus, he obviously was useful to them. “Nothing like that. I just… had some old acquaintances of his drop by recently and wondered if you had seen them around. I lost their contact info.”
Robyn tilts her head, and I’m not entirely sure if she buys my lie, but dragging her into this won’t help anyone.
“No,” she says eventually, “I’m afraid I didn’t see or meet anyone. But I can let you know if I run into someone around here.”
I nod, slap my thighs, and stand up. “Anyway, I don’t want to intrude any longer than I already have.”
My host rises too, steps forward suddenly, and before I can react, pulls me into a brief but firm hug. I let her and even hug her back, hoping it’ll make her feel better.
“You’re welcome to visit anytime,” she says softly. “Whether it’s to reminisce about your grandpa, or even just for a sip of whiskey.”
I swallow hard, nod again, and thank her, then turn to leave. On my way out, I glance over at the wall of red string once more. “You’re not secretly a serial killer, are you?”
Robyn laughs. “Oh, my, no. I don’t dabble in murder,” she answers. “But itisimportant to plan a good heist or robbery now and then. Helps keep the synapses firing on all cylinders.”
Pulling off a heist or robbery with my dead grandpa’s now ex-girlfriend will just be my Plan B for now.
“Certainly. That makes sense,” I say. “Just don’t get caught.”
Robyn knocks on her wooden door three times, which makes me flinch. Then she waves goodbye as I head for the elevator to go back to my grandpa’s floor, where I find Ben leaning over the railing, gazing down at the small park behind the building. He turns when he hears me coming, a worried look on his face.
13
HELENA
“Bad news,” Ben says with a heavy sigh. “He’s gone.” He points toward the open door of my grandpa’s apartment. “I went back to make sure he wouldn’t be locked in, and he wasn’t there anymore.”
“Right,” I say, give a quick look inside, switch off the light in the apartment, and close the door. “It’s probably for the best. Most likely he has family waiting to be fed regurgitated chips.”
Ben’s usual smile has turned into an actual frown. “Yeah, probably.” He nods, then walks over to me and, like earlier, puts his hand around my shoulder. He still smells like scotch and sandalwood, and I get the feeling this isn’t even a perfume—it’s just his natural scent. It smells intoxicating, and I don’t even like scotch.
“I guess I just didn’t expect him to leave the nest so soon, you know.”
“I know,” I answer, and for whatever reason, decide to indulge his shenanigans as we make our way back to the RV. “They grow up so quickly. One evening you establish your dominance, and that same evening they sneak out on you, like they don’t even care anymore.”
Ben releases another loud sigh as we step out of the elevator. “Yeah, I’m just glad we’re going through this together, Panda.”
My elbow instinctively rams itself into his ribcage, that annoying smirk pulling on the corner of my lips again.
Hours later, after everything is unloaded and stacked into my too-tiny apartment, I’ve finally convinced Ben that I’m in no actual danger so that he can go home to whatever oversized mansion he lives in and get some rest.
Eventually, I stand in front of my bathroom mirror, remove my makeup, and stare at my black eye. There’s some yellow in it today. Pretty sure my grandpa would turn in hisurnpaint can, if he knew what was happening here.
I should go to bed. I should lock the door, crawl under the covers, and get some sleep. It’s past my bedtime already, but somehow I’m still wide awake, thinking of my dead grandpa, Ben Lyon, my even deader dad, Ben Lyon, the 100k, and every once in a while, some more of Ben Fucking Lyon. I got lucky that he was there to help. I never could have taken all of those belongings in a cab.
Still, he should not be taking up this much space in my mind. It’s as if he paid for a VIP suite in my frontal cortex. I splash some cold water on my face and watch my reflection in the mirror, hoping I can shame myself into better thoughts. It doesn’t work though, because the second I close my eyes, I see him again—shirt rumpled, sleeves rolled up, muscles shifting under tanned skin, that infuriatingly perfect face, carved like some ancient sculptor got tired of chiseling gods and decided to make something even more perfect, even more sinful.
