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“At least she doesn’t have to deal with him anymore.”
He looks my way. All I can do is nod. Fuck. I should have been here more.
“I’m sorry, Ro.”
“I’m not,” he snaps. “She’s safe now and no longer in pain.”
I nod. “I mean, I’m sorry I wasn’t here more.”
“Me too.”
I face him and look into his eyes. His green eyes. I smile a bit.
“What?”
“Nothing. You look more like her today than I think I’ve ever noticed before.”
She was beautiful. Too beautiful for my dad, that’s for sure. But he can be a charming son of a bitch when he needs to be. Rowan has her fair barely golden skin, lightly dusted with freckles across his nose and shoulders. The full lips and green eyes are hers too. The height, not quite 6-4, came from dad. The long legs are his too.
His wavy dirty blond hair has gotten long, and it strikes me he looks more like Davey’s brother than mine.
“Don’t leave me alone in that house.”
I nod. “Never again.”
He swallows and falls into me. I hold tight. “Never again,” I say into the top of his head.
“She wanted me to give this to you.”
Rowan pulls an envelope from under his mattress. It’s been folded width wise in thirds. I furrow my brow at him. I pull a key out of the envelope.
“It’s a safe deposit box.”
“What’s in it?”
He shakes his head. “No idea. She gave it to me a few weeks ago. Told me to give it to you when she dies, and to not tell dad about it.”
The bank manager looks at me star struck when he escorts Rowan and me into the safe with the walls of boxes. He pulls one out and sets it on the table in the center of the room.
“I’ll leave you to it.” He glances at me one more time before ducking his head and leaving us.
Rowan chuckles. “Does that get old?”
I laugh. “I rarely notice anymore.”
“Okay,” we both exhale and I turn the box and put the key in.
Another envelope addressed to Rowan. A pair of jewelry boxes. One with a beautiful long strand of pearls, another with a very simple diamond ring. A round solitaire. Both belonged to her mother. Another key. To what? Then I see a white index card. There are six numbers on it—account numbers and passcodes. There are also bank names next to each set of numbers. One is the bank we are standing in. The other is a bank in Denver. The third is Chicago. On the back is her social security number and birthdate. No national chains. All three small local banks.
We look at each other.
“I have no idea,” Rowan answers my unasked question.
We gather the jewelry and Rowan folds the other envelope in half and stuffs it into his pocket. I’m sure it’s a letter, a farewell, something he may not be able to stomach reading for a while.
The manager puts in the account number for us, scrolls through some info, and then looks at us.
“The balance is $536,027 and some change.”
