Page 165 of Trailer Trash

“I’ll make you breakfast,” he says, and helps me out of bed.

Bacon pops in a skillet, and he makes eggs and cuts fruit. I taught the spoiled brat how to cook anything. It’s amazing how far we’ve come since I first walked into the mansion and saw what a ridiculously privileged life he lived.

We eat on the patio overlooking the ocean. A gentle breeze slips over my bare legs. We eat quietly, often stealing glances at each other. I’m unsure what he’s thinking. I’m too busy trying to process the last twelve hours.

I text Keysha that I am okay. They already have a small news article about an overnight fire. Nobody else was hurt. The picture shows my trailer and car as twisted steel and ash.

“I need to call the police department after breakfast and figure out what happens next,” I say.

“We will call my dad’s lawyers. They’ll handle it,” he says.

I need all the help I can get, so I don’t argue — even if Killian caused this mess.

“I really loved that car and trailer,” I mumble, my voice revealing the gravity of the loss I’m feeling.

“I’ll get you a car. You can have this condo.”

“I don’t want the condo. The trailer was mine. I earned it. Until you gave me the Audi, it was the only thing of real value I had in my name.”

“I’ll put the condo or whatever place you want in your name.”

He doesn’t get it. How can he? He has a trust. I have savings with a balance near zero.

“Thanks, but I don’t want...” I swallow hard, and speak carefully. “...I don’t want to live here.”

He sets down his fork and leans forward, his eyes narrowing into an intense gaze.

But my reasoning is fair: Asher.

He’s a wound Killian and his family can’t heal.

“Your brother lived here with you. You told your parents the mansion reminds you of him, and that wasn’t a good thing.”

His aggressive posture vanishes. He slumps into his chair.

He sits there, brooding and silent.

“I like that you’ve been so honest with me, Killian. Keep doing that because I have some questions you may not like, but I need you to answer them.”

His demeanor isn’t warm, but he gestures for me to continue.

“Frida said you cut your face. Did you do that?”

He purses his lips into a tight line, then speaks with sincerity.

“I honestly don’t know.”

I restrain the urge to cringe and reveal how disturbing that is.

“Oh. Okay,” I say calmly.

That was a good response, Harlow. Stay cool.

I hold his hand and pry deeper. “Next question. Can you tell me what happened with your brother?”

His eyes flash, surprised and guarded. He tenses.

“Please. I think Asher haunts you. Maybe telling somebody what you two argued about before he died will be healing.”