Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
RONAN
I don’t know how long I stand on the sidewalk outside of the house before I walk up the path.
My boots stay planted on cracked concrete while I stare at white siding that’s gone gray in places, and a roof that sags slightly on one side.
There’s a drive big enough for two cars on the right, with a lawn stretching out from the steps leading to the front door.
A white picket fence separates it from the sidewalk, with gaps where slats have rotted through.
My fingers flex around the key in my hand. I’ve been gripping it tight the entire walk from Mitchell’s office, and it’s left an imprint of its shape in my palm.
High school teachers don’t leave houses to students who fucked up everything they touched.
They especially don’t leave them to ex-cons who spent five years learning to survive in a concrete box.
But Edwards was different. I know he came from money.
I know he taught high school history because he enjoyed it.
What I don’t know is why he’s left all this to me.
But, here I am. Standing on a sidewalk in front of a house that’s seen better days, yet still has hope written into its bones.
The key sticks in the front door lock when I finally move. I have to jiggle it, shoulder pressed against the wood before it finally gives. The door groans, protesting loudly, hinges crying out from disuse.
Stale air hits me first. Then dust. I make the mistake of breathing in as the door disturbs a dust cloud, and spend the next few minutes choking.
When I do finally step inside, my boots leave prints in the gray film coating the hardwood floor.
The entrance hall opens up before me, wide enough that I could stretch out both arms and still not touch either wall.
The walls themselves are covered in peeling wallpaper that might have been blue once.
Now it’s the color of old cigarette smoke, and curls at the corners.
Everything echoes—my footsteps, my breathing, the slow drip coming from somewhere upstairs.
Light filters through grimy windows either side of the front door, catching dust motes that dance in the air.
A staircase rises on the left. Doorways open on either side.
I move toward the one closest to me on the right.
The living room is larger than I expected it to be.
An old couch sits against one wall, covered in a white sheet gone yellow with age.
There are two armchairs, also covered, and a coffee table with water rings staining the surface.
Empty bookshelves are built into the walls, their shelves bare and dusty.
A water stain spreads across the ceiling. The roof probably leaks. I add it to the mental list I’m compiling of things I’m going to need to fix.
My chest feels too tight. The dust is settling into my lungs, coating them, making it hard to breathe.
“Fuck.” The word bounces off the walls.
I back out of the room, and turn to the second door. This one is closed, and sticks when I try to open it. A firm shove gets it open, and I step through.
The kitchen is a time capsule. There are dishes still in the cabinets, covered in dust like everything else in the house.
Plates with faded floral patterns around the edges.
Bowls in various sizes. Old appliances that have seen better days line the counters, but the refrigerator still hums when I plug it in, and I think the stove will also work.
The kitchen table is solid wood, chairs pushed in, almost like someone just left and never came back.
Coffee mugs hang from hooks, dust-coated like everything else.
I find the garage and workshop keys in the kitchen drawer, along with old takeout menus and a stack of blank notebooks. The notebooks are the kind Edwards used to hand out to students—good quality paper, sturdy covers. My name is written on the top one in his handwriting.
I run my fingers across the letters.
R-O-N-A-N.
That’s when it sinks in. That he set this up. Planned it. The same way he showed up at the prison month after month, bringing books and quiet conversation, refusing to let me disappear completely.
Five years of visits I didn’t ask for, but couldn’t refuse. I shove the memories away.
There’s a connecting door from the kitchen to the garage, where the Honda sits, also covered in dust. The registration and insurance are in the glove box, all in my name, dated six months ago. A month later, he was dead.
Did he know? He must have. Yet he never said a word to me.
The staircase groans under my weight, but the handrail is solid oak beneath layers of grime. My hand tightens on it, testing it. It holds steady, built to last.
The second floor is more of the same. Three bedrooms, each with furniture draped in sheets. The bathroom connected to the master bedroom has a claw-foot tub. The walk-in closet still has hangers, empty now and rattling against each other in the draft that’s coming from somewhere.
Another item on the mental note to investigate later.
I leave that room, and find the smallest bedroom, where I pull the sheets off the bed, sending more dust everywhere. The mattress is still in plastic wrap. New and unused.
A dresser stands against one wall. There’s a desk under the window. All basic furniture, nothing fancy.
In prison, I had one change of clothes, and three books at a time from the library. That was everything I owned in the world. Now I’m standing in the bedroom of a house that belongs to me.
Shoving my hands into the pockets of my hoodie, my fingers touch paper. The bank paperwork. I guess I should go and do the final parts of this surreal experience to make it real. I head toward the front door, then stop and backtrack through the kitchen and into the garage.
The car starts as soon as I turn the key. There’s a remote control for the garage doors on the keyring, and I reverse out and onto the road, my mind still reeling over the fact that this is happening.
The bank lobby is all polished marble and judgmental silence. The security guard watches me closely as I walk toward the counter, hands deep in my pockets to hide the tremors that won’t stop.
“How can I help you?” The teller’s smile falters when she sees me, eyes locking on the black ink visible above the collar of my T-shirt.
“Need to get access to my account.” I push Mitchell’s paperwork across the counter. “It was set up by Harris Edwards.”
She studies the documents, frowning, and I hold my breath, waiting for her to tell me it’s all wrong, then call security to throw me out.
“One moment please.” She picks up her phone, and I brace myself as she whispers into it.
When she sets down the receiver, her entire demeanor has changed.
Her lips curve up into a smile, and her voice is considerably warmer.
“Mr. Barnes will be right with you, Mr. Oliver. If you’ll just take a seat? ”
I move out of the way, but stay standing. A woman clutches her purse tighter as she passes me. A kid points at my tattoos, asking what they are, before his mom hushes him and hurries away.
“Mr. Oliver?” A man in a crisp gray suit appears, hand extended. “I’m James Barnes. Please, come into my office.”
His office screams money. Awards line the walls, family photographs cover his desk. Everything is polished and permanent. A life built on solid ground, instead of quicksand.
He waves a hand to the seat across from him, and pulls something up on his computer.
“Ah yes, the Edwards trust account. Everything has been arranged. We just need to verify your identity and get your signature on a few documents.”
I hand him my driver’s license. The photograph is terrible, but my prison mugshot was worse. At least this one is attached to something that gives me rights instead of taking them away.
“Perfect.” He types for a couple of seconds, then pulls out a stack of forms. “I need you to sign here to acknowledge receipt of the debit card, and here for the bank to have a record of your signature. Initial these pages for the account terms, and withdrawal limits. There are two accounts. One is for day to day use, which will have a ten thousand deposit made on the first of every month. This month’s will go in as soon as you’ve signed, and then it will continue on the first after that.
Once the first six months have passed, if you have met the terms of the will, the rest of the fund will be released into the account.
I’m sure Mr. Mitchell has already explained all the terms to you.
The second account is a savings account.
It’s up to you whether you wish to deposit any of your income into that one, but Mr. Edwards wanted to ensure both were available for your use. ”
Ten thousand dollars. Every month for six months. More money than I’ve ever seen at once.
I sign everything he places in front of me, and once I’m done, he gathers all the sheets up and stands.
“Let me go and get this processed, then I’ll have your debit card. Would you like a checkbook as well?”
“No, thank you.”
“I strongly recommend—”
“Just the card will do.”
He disappears, and returns a few minutes later, with the debit card and copies of all the signed forms. He sits back down, studying me as though I’m a puzzle he can’t quite solve.
“That’s everything. If you go to the front desk, one of the tellers will activate your card and pin. If you need anything else—”
“I won’t.” I stand, pause long enough to shake his hand, then walk out before he can tell me it’s all a joke, and take it back.
The teller who activates my debit card won’t meet my eyes. I wonder if she was at school at the same time as me. The way she’s behaving suggests she knows who I am. When she slides the card across the counter, she uses her fingertips, and lets go before I reach it, afraid our fingers might touch.
I say nothing, pocket the card and papers, and walk out, already considering what I should do next.
I decide on necessities. Sheets. Towels. Cleaning supplies. The house needs more than just dusting before I can sleep or eat there.
The big box store on the edge of town is overwhelming.
The place didn’t exist when I was last here, and I hoped it would be easier to shop in than one of the smaller stores in town run by people who probably remember me.
But it’s too bright, and too big with too many choices stretching endlessly in every direction.
I stick to the edges, moving slowly up and down the aisles. Sheets in dark blue. Towels, Pillows. Cleaning supplies—bleach, all-purpose cleaner, sponges, trash bags.
Each item that goes into the cart adds to the surrealism of the moment. Any minute now someone is going to stop me and ask what I’m doing. Demand to know who the hell I think I am.
The payment goes through without any issues, but it still feels wrong.
After that, I find the grocery store, and spend my time filling a cart with real food, instead of gas station shit, or whatever is the cheapest thing on the shelf.
I pick up things I haven’t let myself think about in years, haven’t eaten in longer than I can remember.
Fresh fruit. Meat that isn’t processed beyond recognition.
Ingredients for proper meals, instead of TV dinners that I can throw into the microwave of a motel room.
Real coffee. Not the instant crap.
I’m loading bags into the back of the Honda when blonde hair catches in the sunlight to my left. My heart stops.
Actually fucking stops.
One of the grocery bags slips from my fingers, oranges spilling across the road.
Lily.
For one brutal second, I can’t breathe, can’t move, can’t do anything but stare. Blood rushes in my ears. My heart squeezes painfully. Every scar, every memory I’ve tried to bury comes roaring back.
The factory. Her hands on my skin. The way she looked at me. The promises we made that I broke when I let them take me away.
And then she turns.
It’s not Lily.
Relief hits harder than the panic, leaving me shaking and my stomach twisted into knots. I grip the trunk, needing something solid under my hands. Oranges continue to roll under other cars while I try to remember how to breathe.
Seven fucking years, and just the possibility of seeing her tears me apart.
I chase down the oranges with shaking hands, and gather them up, even though they’re probably bruised now. But I can’t waste food. An old habit I haven’t been able to break.
Once I get back to the house, I have myself under control.
I unload everything in the kitchen, while I give the refrigerator a wipe down.
It isn’t the deep clean it needs, but it’s enough to be able to put groceries in without worrying about getting ill.
Once that’s done, I clean the kitchen table, the chairs, and the countertops.
Then I sit at the table and spread out Mitchell’s paperwork, trying to make sense of everything that needs to be done.
The house creaks around me, settling into the idea of someone being here again.
Or maybe just settling into its own slow collapse.
I can associate with both options.
There’s another letter, paperclipped to the back of the photocopy of the will, addressed to me. I eye it for a second, then set it aside.
One thing at a time.
That’s how you survive.