Page 18 of Ghosts Don't Cry
I run my fingers across the letters.
R-O-N-A-N.
That’s when it sinks in. That he set this up.Planned it. The same way he showed up at the prison month after month, bringing books and quiet conversation, refusing to let me disappear completely.
Five years of visits I didn’t ask for, but couldn’t refuse. I shove the memories away.
There’s a connecting door from the kitchen to the garage, where the Honda sits, also covered in dust. The registration and insurance are in the glove box, all in my name, dated six months ago. A month later, he was dead.
Did he know?He must have. Yet he never said a word to me.
The staircase groans under my weight, but the handrail is solid oak beneath layers of grime. My hand tightens on it, testing it. It holds steady, built to last.
The second floor is more of the same. Three bedrooms, each with furniture draped in sheets. The bathroom connected to themaster bedroom has a claw-foot tub. The walk-in closet still has hangers, empty now and rattling against each other in the draft that’s coming from somewhere.
Another item on the mental note to investigate later.
I leave that room, and find the smallest bedroom, where I pull the sheets off the bed, sending more dust everywhere. The mattress is still in plastic wrap. New and unused.
A dresser stands against one wall. There’s a desk under the window. All basic furniture, nothing fancy.
In prison, I had one change of clothes, and three books at a time from the library. That was everything I owned in the world. Now I’m standing in the bedroom of a house that belongs to me.
Shoving my hands into the pockets of my hoodie, my fingers touch paper. The bank paperwork. I guess I should go and do the final parts of this surreal experience to make it real. I head toward the front door, then stop and backtrack through the kitchen and into the garage.
The car starts as soon as I turn the key. There’s a remote control for the garage doors on the keyring, and I reverse out and onto the road, my mind still reeling over the fact that this is happening.
The bank lobby is all polished marble and judgmental silence. The security guard watches me closely as I walk toward the counter, hands deep in my pockets to hide the tremors that won’t stop.
“How can I help you?” The teller’s smile falters when she sees me, eyes locking on the black ink visible above the collar of my T-shirt.
“Need to get access to my account.” I push Mitchell’s paperwork across the counter. “It was set up by Harris Edwards.”
She studies the documents, frowning, and I hold my breath, waiting for her to tell me it’s all wrong, then call security to throw me out.
“One moment please.” She picks up her phone, and I brace myself as she whispers into it. When she sets down the receiver, her entire demeanor has changed. Her lips curve up into a smile, and her voice is considerably warmer. “Mr. Barnes will be right with you, Mr. Oliver. If you’ll just take a seat?”
I move out of the way, but stay standing. A woman clutches her purse tighter as she passes me. A kid points at my tattoos, asking what they are, before his mom hushes him and hurries away.
“Mr. Oliver?” A man in a crisp gray suit appears, hand extended. “I’m James Barnes. Please, come into my office.”
His office screams money. Awards line the walls, family photographs cover his desk. Everything is polished and permanent. A life built on solid ground, instead of quicksand.
He waves a hand to the seat across from him, and pulls something up on his computer.
“Ah yes, the Edwards trust account. Everything has been arranged. We just need to verify your identity and get your signature on a few documents.”
I hand him my driver’s license. The photograph is terrible, but my prison mugshot was worse. At least this one is attached to something that gives me rights instead of taking them away.
“Perfect.” He types for a couple of seconds, then pulls out a stack of forms. “I need you to sign here to acknowledge receipt of the debit card, and here for the bank to have a record of your signature. Initial these pages for the account terms, and withdrawal limits. There are two accounts. One is for day to day use, which will have a ten thousand deposit made on the first of every month. This month’s will go in as soon as you’ve signed, and then it will continue on the first after that. Once the first sixmonths have passed, if you have met the terms of the will, the rest of the fund will be released into the account. I’m sure Mr. Mitchell has already explained all the terms to you. The second account is a savings account. It’s up to you whether you wish to deposit any of your income into that one, but Mr. Edwards wanted to ensure both were available for your use.”
Ten thousand dollars. Every month for six months. More money than I’ve ever seen at once.
I sign everything he places in front of me, and once I’m done, he gathers all the sheets up and stands.
“Let me go and get this processed, then I’ll have your debit card. Would you like a checkbook as well?”
“No, thank you.”
