Page 8 of Ghosts Don't Cry
“Shall I continue?”
“There’s more?” I can barely push the words out.
A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “The monthly allowance is to ensure you can focus on meeting the terms Mr. Edwards laid out in order for you to receive the full trust fund.”
“The terms?”
“For now, maintaining the property and bringing it back to a standard that makes it fully habitable. You must remain here in Graystone Hollow for six months, living in the house, and completing the work.” He slides an envelope across the desk, sealed with wax like something from another century. “Thereareadditional requirements, but per Mr. Edwards instructions, they are to be given to you a month after you sign to agree that you will take up residence at Cedar Street. This, however, you should read now, before you make a decision.”
The envelope is made of thick, expensive paper—the kind used for important documents, not notes passed to troubled kids who sleep in school libraries. I force down that thought before it takes root, and tear open the envelope with hands that want to shake.
Ronan,
You deserved so much better than what life gave you. I should have done something back then, instead of waiting until it was too late. I didn’t, and for that I will always be sorry. I hope, at the least, I made the last seven years a little easier to bear, but for me it is not enough. You are a good man, Ronan, and I want you to have the opportunities now that you didn’t get then. I know your instinct will be to say no, but don’t let your pride take away this chance.
It's not charity, and it’s not pity. It’s the first step to taking back your future.
Harris.
My pulse pounds in my ears, drowning out whatever Mitchell is saying about paperwork and signatures. The letter crumples in my fist before I realize my fingers have moved.
“I understand that this is overwhelming,” Mitchell says quietly. His voice seems to come from far away. “Please take your time.”
But time won’t make this make sense.
“What do I need to do?”
“I need you to sign that you understand the terms, and there is some paperwork to finalize your ownership of the house and car. You will also need to take a walk to the bank, where they have some additional things for you to sign to release the account and funds to you.”
I nod, and sign where he tells me to. My signature looks wrong next to all the formal legal language. Each stroke of the pen commits me to something I don’t understand. Once I’m done, he has copies made of everything, and gives them to me. Proof that this is real. That someone thought I deserved …something.
It makes me uncomfortable. I’m already regretting putting my name on the paperwork. Therehasto be a catch. Something I haven’t figured out yet.
“These are the house keys.” Mitchell holds them out. I hesitate for a second before taking them. The metal is too heavy in my palm. “Here’s the car key. You’ll find the keys to the garage in the kitchen drawer at the house. There’s also a workshop in the yard at the back. The keys for that should be with the garage ones. There is also another letter that Mr. Edwards would like you to open when you feel ready.” He hands it to me, then stands up and holds out one hand. “Welcome home, Mr. Oliver.”
Home.
Graystone Hollow was never a home to me.
I don’t remember standing up. I don’t remember shaking his hand. I just remember walking out. The receptionist says something I don’t hear. My boots track more dirt on their cream-colored carpet.
And then I’m outside. The sharp fall air hits my face, shocking me back into awareness. My fingers are numb around the keys. My chest is tight. The letter burns in my pocket like it’s made of fire instead of paper.
A silver BMW rolls past, followed by a truck held together by rust and hope. Someone looks at me too long through the coffee shop window—a woman in pearls who probably thinks I’m casing the joint. I keep walking, keys digging into my palm hard enough to leave marks.
You deserved better.
No, I didn’t. I got what I earned. Exactly what happens when you make the choices I made. When everything spirals out of control, and you can’t do anything to stop it.
I should have done something.
There was nothing he could have done. Nothing anyone could have done. I wouldn’t have accepted the help, and by the time I realized I couldn’t do it alone, it was too late to matter.
Ten thousand dollars a month? A house? A car? Two hundred and fifty thousand waiting for me in six months, and then again in another twelve months?
It’s too much. It’s too easy. And it’s toogenerousfor someone who spent years learning that nothing good lasts long.
Nothingin my life has ever come without a price higher than the one listed on the tag.
