Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 67432 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 337(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67432 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 337(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
Three Weeks Earlier
A mug fell to the floor, shattering in thick chunks of porcelain. “Ah crap, sorry,” the student said as she adjusted her backpack. The barista came around the counter with a smile and a hand broom, telling her not to worry about it as he swept up the mess.
The coffee shop was starting to fill up with people now that the university classes had let out, and the kids were filing in for their shots of espressos and macchiatos that would help them get through whatever studying or exams they had coming up. I rarely came around this side of town, but it was my sister’s favorite spot, and I could never say no to her. Since we were tiny kids barreling through the house, being chased by our four other brothers, she was always my best friend, my buddy, the one that had my back, and I had hers.
So if she wanted to come to this trendy little spot to talk about our mother’s suspicious death before we flew out to our annual family retreat, then so be it. I’d entertain her.
“What’d you get?” she asked, swirling her cup of mostly sugar and a dash of coffee. Ice clinked inside, her lips shining around the straw as she took a sip.
“Just a regular coffee. Two sugars.”
“You’re sick. A sick, sick man. I don’t know how you can drink that motor oil.”
“Jen, it’s really not that bad. And it won’t throw me into a diabetic coma like your bucket of whip cream and cinnamon.”
“You know me. I love coffee. I just also hate coffee. I’m complicated like that.”
I shook my head, smiling. A group of backpack-carrying kids dropped into the bean bags next to our table, their bags unzipping and their laughter and chatter filling the air.
“Are you all packed?” Jen asked.
“We’ve still got two weeks before we leave—of course I’m not packed. Are you?”
“We have two weeks left before we leave—of course I’m packed. Do you understand the logistics it takes to make all this happen?” She threw her curly black locks over her shoulder and winked. I rolled my eyes, although I couldn’t deny that my buzz cut and very anemic skin-care routine paled in comparison to the regime Jen went through each day. “I also have a lot of mental preparation to undergo for the shitshow that’s waiting for us, so the less I have to worry about before the trip, the better.”
I huffed out a breath. “Shitshow is an understatement.”
“It’s going to be the first time we’re all together since it happened.”
“I know… I know.”
“Have you talked to Matt? Archie? Kendall?”
All siblings, none of them as close to me as Jen. “Only through text, and nothing important. They all seem to be just fine, judging by their social media posts, but we all know that filtered smiles can only go so far.”
“Yeah, it’s all bullshit. Archie hates his wife, Matt hates his job, Kendall hates herself. And I hate all of them. Crazy how that works, huh?”
“You know who didn’t hate them? Mom.”
“Not true. Did you already forget her blowing up on Archie for marrying someone she thought would ruin the family name she worked so hard to build up?”
“Yeah, but they got over that, and Archie turned into her favorite kid.”
Jen shot me a skeptical look. “And yet Archie wasn’t even at her funeral. What a joke.”
“He didn’t even have a good excuse.”
“Nope. Then again, neither did Matt. He was off backpacking through Thailand. At least he sent flowers, though.”
“Orchids. Mom hated orchids. She loved lavender.”
Jen chuckled. “She sure did hate orchids.” She looked out the window, shaking her head. “Something happened to her, Colt. Something bad. I just know it. Down in my bones, I know someone hurt her.”
Maybe that’s what made Jen and I so close. We always worked our way through this world on the same wavelength. Her feelings were mine, and mine were hers. We understood each other on a level that ran soul-deep. A look between us could carry a hundred questions, another look carrying the accompanying answers. Our inside jokes were numerous, and our secrets were kept tight, locked in the vaults of our lifelong friendship.
One secret that was recently deposited into the vault was something that felt difficult to admit, even to myself, in the quiet spaces of my thoughts. How could anyone be okay with thinking their mom was murdered? The woman who’d brought them into this world, the one who’d worked tirelessly and thanklessly to dig her family out of poverty and give them a life that many people can only ever dream of. She’d amassed a fortune while doing her best to support the children she did it all for.
And now she was dead. A robbery gone wrong. As if any robbery can ever go right.