Page 15 of Trailer Park Billionaire
I take the edges of my bed sheet and bundle everything up, checking every corner of the apartment again for anything I might have missed.
Justice Harper.One year for assaulting her abusive ex. Ten for getting rid of him permanently.
When I can’t find anything else, I grab a trash bag and stuff all the incriminating evidence inside.
Sasha Chatham.One year for embezzlement. Released right after I got in. Back for another three years before I got out.
The clock reads 4:11 AM and I have no time to waste. I search for the trash pickup schedule for our area, only to find it was picked up two days ago. Maybe I could throw it in a coffee shopdumpster around the corner. But there might be cameras. Not ideal.
On a whim, I look up the schedule for the area around the museum and find that it’s today. Perfect.
Without wasting another second, I hop into the shower, pop a painkiller, bandage my hand, get dressed, and pop another painkiller. The wound is still pounding—like a gavel at an art auction… or in a courtroom.
At 4:30 AM, I leave the apartment building, the trash bag rolled as tightly as possible and shoved into a backpack. By now, the snow has stopped and turned into a gray slurry of dirt. Only bits and pieces remain covered in untouched white.
One bus and a subway ride later, I arrive at work. It’s still dark, so I’m pretty sure no one sees me when I toss the trash bag into one of the dumpsters out back. I breathe a sigh of relief and hurry inside through the back door. Apart from one of our security guards, no one else seems to be in yet. According to my phone, it’s 5:05 AM. And apparently, I also have three missed calls from Elaine from last night.
When I enter my lab, I don’t turn on the light. I just stand in front of the window, waiting for trash collection.
Coincidentally, that’s also how I feel: like absolute trash waiting to be picked up. Only that it’ll be the police doing the picking up instead. And it would serve me right. I don’t care about the St. Clair’s gallery window—they have it and so much more coming—but I do care about not being an idiot, and about not going back to prison.
It’s only once the truck arrives and empties the dumpsters, that I exhale for what feels like a solid minute. I watch my breath fog up the window. That’s it—evidence gone, guilt compacted, all tied up in a squeezed little trash bag.
I wish grief could be handled that efficiently.
Which is when it hits me like a truck:I am alone now.
Completely and utterly alone.
My grandpa wasn’t just my last remaining family. He was my history. My link to the past. The last person who remembered what my dad sounded like when he laughed. Or what my mom even looked like. Now, all of that is gone. Erased.
“Here you are!” Elaine comes in blazing before the sun has fully made it over the horizon, which is unusual. She’s never in before 9 AM. “I was looking for you,” she says, and gently strokes my arm. She knows I am not much of a hugger so, I think, this is her way of comforting me without making me too uncomfortable. “Did he?—”
“Yeah.” I nod, and feel my mouth fill with dust again. “Sorry, I need water,” I explain, slide her hand off me and walk over to the sink. The cool liquid runs straight from the faucet into my mouth, then I let it wash all over my face. It cuts my breathing off for a few seconds—which, for whatever reason, calms me down a bit.
Elaine is speechless. At least until she remembers the script and says what she’s supposed to say in a situation like this. “I am so, so sorry, dear.”
I don’t even have to turn around to see the expression on her face. It’s the same one Sienna gave me yesterday. The same one everyone plastered on whenever they saw me after my dad died. I know I can’t blame her. Or anyone, really. What else could they do?
But I’ve had enough of that damned expression. It’s like it’s beenfollowinghaunting me.
“I went by your apartment just now, hoping to find you since I couldn’t reach you by phone. I wanted to let you know that you can take off as long as you need. Don’t worry about the paintings or anything else. I can cover for you.”
Lying in bed does sound tempting right now. I could certainly use the sleep. But I also know that it would giveoccasion for thoughts to manifest and linger—thoughts I cannot allow in. I turn off the water, dry my face with a towel, and look out the window at the empty dumpsters that are scattered across the lot.
That’s what happens when I do allow them in.
And it’s what eventually gets you arrested.
And then thrown back into jail.
“No. I need to work,” I answer flatly.I need to follow my routine.
“Helena,” Elaine sighs and gently pats my back, “you need to take care of yourself. You need to grieve. Take your time. We will be fine here without you for a couple of days, or even weeks. If you’d like, I can even help you with funeral arrange?—”
“No,” I interrupt her, having had enough of this conversation. Sticking to my schedule, working—that’s how I take care of myself. That’s how I keep away from trouble, from more bad decisions. It’s how my grandpa taught me. It’s how I made it here in the first place. “Thank you, Elaine. I know you mean well. But I want to work. I need to work. There’s lots to do. So… if you don’t mind.”
My boss gives me an understanding nod, squeezes my arm once, and reluctantly walks towards the door. For a second, I think there’s a tear on her cheek, but it’s probably just light reflecting.
