Chapter 3
491 Words
Edward came fast.
Forty minutes later, a black Mercedes pulled up in front of my building.
When he stepped out, I almost didn't recognize him.
Fifty-five years old, and more than half his hair had gone white.
He looked at least five years older than the last time I'd seen him.
He wore a dark gray jacket and carried a brown envelope.
He looked at my building, at the rusted security gate and the peeling paint, and his brow furrowed.
"You're living here?"
"Just found it."
"Give it up."
"What?"
He held out a key.
"I've got a place on the east side. It's been sitting empty. Stay there."
I didn't take it.
"Dad, that doesn't feel right."
"I told you, don't call me Dad." His voice was quiet but heavy. "Call me Edward."
"Edward. It doesn't feel right."
"What doesn't feel right about it?" He pressed the key into my hand. "We were family for five years."
I didn't quite understand what he meant. Or maybe I did.
He took me to dinner that day.
An old restaurant on the west side, the kind that's been there forever.
He knew I loved their smoked ribs.
He talked through the whole meal. He said the biggest regret of his life was failing to raise Marcus right.
He said he was sorry.
He said if he'd made Marcus cut things off with Yvonne, maybe none of this would have happened.
I listened. I didn't say much.
The ribs were good. I couldn't swallow.
"Lena." He set down his fork and looked at me. "There's something I need to tell you."
I set mine down, too.
He pulled a few pages from the envelope and slid them across the table.
A notarized will.
It stated that upon Edward Landry's death, all of his assets—three companies, two residential properties, one commercial unit—would be inherited by me.
I stared at the words. My mind went blank.
"Edward, what is this..."
"Let me finish."
He pulled out another document. A property transfer agreement.
The apartment on the east side, fully renovated and worth millions, was also being transferred into my name.
"We can get this one done tomorrow."
He laid both documents in front of me.
"Lena, you've been wronged for too many years."
His eyes were red, but he didn't cry.
"I want to marry you. Not because I feel sorry for you. Not out of guilt. I mean it."
His fingers drummed against the tabletop. His voice had the faintest tremor.
"I know how this sounds. It's absurd.
"But I'm too old to lie to myself."
I sat there. The taste of ribs had receded into something distant and unreal.
Outside, the rain kept falling.
I could hear my heartbeat. Slow. Heavy. One beat at a time.
I reached into my pocket and felt the key to my rental.
The landlord's handwritten room number was still taped to it: 301.
- Writer
