“Eight years later? No, Silver. That case has long been closed.”
I can’t see why he’s so confident that I’m safe from the law and Lucinda. “I don’t know. I need time to think about this.”
He sighs. “I told you, we don’t have time. I’m urging you to please end this. Don’t you want to come home?”
“I am home. And I’m doing well.” I swallow before I continue. “There’s nothing to go back to.” I know what I’m saying. He’s been protecting my inheritance all this time, and now I’m telling him I’m still not ready to claim what’s mine so that Lucinda can’t attempt to take it away. While guilt lives and breathes inside of me every single day over this situation, I’ve learned how to cope with it in the best way I can.
Harvey lets out a slow breath. “Maybe not, but you should know that there’s an expiration date on these things. Especially when someone else thinks that money should be theirs. Lucinda is also petitioning the court and saying that you’re dead, Syl—Silver.”
“What? She has no proof of that.”
“Legally, after seven years, the only proof she needs is your absence. It’s been eight. And if the courts can’t dig up any recent history on you—jobs, school, friends, anything—and come up empty, which they will, then she’ll win. Your time is up, kid. I’m preparing all the documents, and you’ll need to sign off on them.”
While I’ve gotten used to living with the guilt of leaving Harvey to deal with the fallout of my disappearance, I know I can’t allow Lucinda to finally win. Not after all I’ve lost. My throat pinches closed. “But I’m not ready.”
“Will you ever be?”
We both know the answer to that. Nothing can ever take back the horror of that year following my father’s death. Nothing will ever remove the scars buried deep inside me from that night I finally made my escape.
“I imagine you’ve made a happy life for yourself there, and you should be proud of that. I’m proud of you, too, just as your father would be.”
My throat swells as tears prick the backs of my eyes.
“But,” he continues, “if you want to keep Lucinda from claiming your trust, you’ll need to claim it first.”
“I-I don’t know, Harvey. Maybe it’s not even worth it. If she wants the money that badly, maybe I should just let her have it.” But even as I say the words, I know it’s not an option.
“Seriously?” Harvey practically chokes on his question. “After everything she put you through? You cannot let her win.”
He’s right. It’s not even about the money at this point. It’s about principle. I swallow and shake my head, feeling torn in half. “I need a little time. The courts won’t see her right away. How much time do I have?”
“One month to be safe.”
A knot twists in my gut. It’s not a lot of time, but it’s something. “Okay.”
A few beats of silence pass between us, then he’s the one to break it. “I’ll call back to check in on you in a few days. Whatever happens, whatever you decide, you won’t be alone.”
I shake my head in an effort to find comfort in his words. For some reason, no comfort comes. Deep down inside, I knew it wasn’t over. I became complicit in the idea that my past would always have a grip on me. My inheritance was safe from her evil clutches, and I’d found a new home. I never felt the need to claim what he left for me, and after that night, I couldn’t touch it anyway. My best bet was to stay away for good. While I knew I could officially claim my inheritance at twenty-five years old, I didn’t know there would be an expiration date along with that. I didn’t know the wounds of my past would split wide open and it would be me sewing it back together with the needle and thread.
“Thanks for the heads-up, Harvey. I need to go.”
A heavy sigh rests on the line for a moment before he speaks again. “Okay, kid. I understand. I’ll check back in soon.”
I hang up, feeling sick with the tornado of emotions whirling in my chest. Eight years of buried fears are being picked up with the debris of everything I left behind. I’m not sure where I will land in the end.
STITCHES
SILVER
I try to go back to work after the phone call with Harvey, but it’s pointless. It’s late Sunday afternoon anyway. There’s nothing much to do other than busywork, and I can’t seem to get the conversation off my mind. The last time I spoke to Harvey was one month after I arrived at camp. I hoped he was calling with good news—news that would give me reason and peace of mind to return home. That was when he told me that Lucinda had filed a police report on the night I left home, and my heart sank into complete and utter darkness. It was then that I knew I wouldn’t be able to go home for a very long time.
Camp wasn’t completely terrible back then. The Bexleys were amazing, inviting me to the main residence on the north side of camp for family dinners and including me in their town outings and boating excursions. The Bexley brothers became my brothers, and their parents became my guardians. But during that initial month, I felt like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz when her house first landed in a strange new world. Except, there were no ruby slippers in sight.
Shaking away the old memories, I gaze at the white bag Marlo brought in earlier, and I groan. I guess I can take a break and make one pit stop before I take the rest of the day off.
After snatching the bag from the counter, I head toward the field to find Kingston. It doesn’t look like there’s any training going on by the time I make it to the large open field where the majority of the week will be spent, but the guys all seem to be there. Some are tossing the ball back and forth, others are chatting in groups, while the rest are animated and talking to the BelleCurve film crew. I take the long way around the field to avoid the cameras and step onto the field.
“Coming for you, King!” a player yells.
Kingston takes off running in my direction, with his head turned to look over his shoulder and his eyes on the ball ripping through the wind toward him. As he starts to pivot, his eyes catch on me. I know nothing about football, but I know something is off when Kingston loses sight of the ball, even if it is for an instant. He rips his eyes from mine and continues to prepare for a catch. There’s no time. He hasn’t even fully spotted the ball before it smacks and scrapes against the side of his face.
I cringe as the six-foot-six-man howls and both of his large palms cover the point of impact.
“What the hell, King?” yells the player who threw the ball. He’s already jogging across the field to check out the damage. “You were supposed to catch it with your hands, not your face.”
Players chuckle as they gather around, while others come over looking genuinely concerned.
“Fuck you, dude,” Kingston spouts back. “I think that cut me open.” He curses again and starts to pull his hand away. As soon as blood starts spilling down his cheek, he slams it back in place. “Well, shit.”
My steps quicken right along with my pulse as my medical instinct kicks in. I stuff the white package holding the condoms between the elastic of the back of my pants and my underwear, quickly cover it with my scrub top, then push my way through the gathering of guys until I’m right in front of Kingston.