Page 98 of Mourner for Hire
“And we’re mourners for hire. Invited by the dead,” Morgan answers with crossed arms.
“Does it feel good to make people spiral when their lives have already turned to chaos?” he remarks, gesturing up the hill. There’s shouting and uncontrollable laughter—the combination making my mind spin.
“I only do what’s asked of me,” I answer.
His nostrils flare. “Even if you crush the people around you.”
Morgan steps forward, her gaze darting behind us. It would seem a rich mob is about to descend upon us. “It sounds like the two of you have some unresolved issues and you need to just sit down and hash it out, but like, maybe some other time.”
My gaze shifts to her with my mouth wide open. She is not typically the voice of reason. But I understand. Barron and Timothy are barreling down the hill, red-faced with fists in the air.
“Unresolved issues are a very nice way of saying I disagree whole-heartedly with her life choices, and I think she preys upon the weak for money,” Dominic says, completely oblivious, it would seem.
“Oh, look at you and your big feelings.”
“Big feelings you can talk about later.” Morgan grips my arm.
“Time to go!” I shout, fumbling with my key fob. Just before I slam my door, I add, “Come to the cottage tonight if you still want to lecture me.”
I practically see the steam blow out of his ears as we peel out of the parking lot.
THIRTY-THREE
DOMINIC
In truth,I wanted to understand—if only so I can understand why I still want her.
I want to be empathetic about her job and have this warm agreeable feeling when it comes to her and what she chooses to do for a living.
Unfortunately, her grandiose performance, followed by her tirade in the parking lot, coupled with the angry mob currently descending upon me, makes “understanding” impossible. In fact, the idea of finding common ground is downright laughable.
“How do you know her?” the short one asks me.
Two veins are popping out of my neck.
At first, I think of outing her, exposing her for the indecent con artist she is, but then the taller one—though he still caps out at my chin—says, “I don’t care if they’re our fucking sisters. We’ve been waiting five years for Mom to die so we could finally get what’s ours.”
I tsk, a small smile on my face as I watch true top-two percent privilege throw a fit in front of me. “What’s yours or your daddy’s?”
“Fuck you, guy!” the other one says.
“We just need answers. How did this happen?”
I turn to the petite blonde in a full-length black gown who is speaking.
She grabs onto one of the son’s arms. “Right, babe?”
He ignores her and starts spewing off some expletives.
“Gentlemen, leave this man alone. He has nothing to do with your sisters,” says the man in the freshly tailored suit who officiated the whole ceremony.
I clear my throat and any intention of throwing Vada under these dumbasses’ penny loafers.
“I asked those beautiful ladies for directions to the main office. My mother has just passed, and they were kind enough to direct me without descending on me like vultures on roadkill. But considering the emotional state I’m in and all I have to plan, I can’t imagine caring about anything as minuscule as a family fortune when I just lost my last living parent.” I bite out the last words.
Their faces deflate a little, and then the mask falls again, and they go back to their sociopathic tendencies.
I slip away from the crowd and march back to my truck.
