79. Dollie—present day
Dollie—present day
Lucky:
Thank you.
I gnoring what I’m doing, I set down the cupcake I’m decorating for Nyx, leaving the small lemon cake with all the others like it. They’re surrounded by all the mess I made while making them, while I grab my phone.
I’d texted Ambrose this morning, not expecting an answer because maybe Valaria, or maybe even his doctor, had his phone, but I wanted to wish him a happy birthday.
With frosting still on my fingers, and now, distorting the screen, my fingers tap away at the keypad.
Dollancie:
You’re counting them down, too?
Those little dots appear, and butterflies dance in my stomach.
Lucky:
By the second.
That message was… cute.
Dollancie:
Was it not cute?
Lucky:
No, it was. I’m just not used to it.
Dollancie:
I can tone it down, maybe.
Lucky:
I don’t want you to. I like you unfiltered.
Dollancie:
How do you have your phone anyway?
I wasn’t expecting you to see that message until tomorrow, when your birthday is over.
Lucky:
The psych doctor on duty is on his third pee break of the day. He takes precisely three minutes and forty seconds each time.
Dollancie:
You’ve been timing him?
You’re such a nerd. LOL.
Lucky:
I have one minute left, and you wanna use it to insult me?
Dollancie:
Well, I guess there’ll be time for that later.
Lucky:
Yeah. So, what are you doing until I get home?
Dollancie:
I’m gonna start you a new cake tonight. It’ll keep me busy. The one I started a few days ago didn’t look so appealing this morning.
No, it’s a hard black mess that’s melted to the stand I placed it on to set. I suppose my mind being elsewhere really didn’t enhance my baking skills. Hopefully, that isn’t the case today, as my mind is at the hospital with Ambrose.
Lucky:
I’m not fussy. Don’t stress over it.
Dollancie:
You are fussy. You had comments on my stew.
Lucky:
I still ate it, though.
Dollancie:
Well, thanks for torturing your taste buds on my behalf.
I might take Bubbles into town. All by myself. If I feel brave enough. I think she’s looking for you, and I got a little upset with her yesterday. Now, I feel bad.
Lucky:
I’m sorry.
Dollancie:
No, it wasn’t you. It was Shane—we think anyway.
Lucky:
What did he do?
Dollancie:
I’ll explain when you’re home.
Lucky:
No, Dollie. Explain now.
Dollancie:
No, because It’ll take a while, and you won’t even get to read it.
Lucky:
Fair point. The doctor is outside my room. I can hear him talking. Anyway, if you go up to my room and brave the mess, my wallet should be in there somewhere. Take some money, get yourself a boba, and a snack for you and Bubbles.
Dollancie:
No opinions on Shane? Just back on this eating thing.
Lucky:
I have a lot of opinions on Shane, Dollie. And he himself can hear them when I get out of this place. Now, feed your fucking self.
Just do it. For me.
Setting down my phone, I let out the biggest breath, blowing flour across the table.
Placing in the lemon cupcakes, I close the lid on the box of six and set it aside for Nyx, who should be done with work here tomorrow.
Bubbles stares at me from the other side of the table, flour on her twitching nose. Her eyes cross, trying to see it, and I laugh.
“Come here.” I bend to her level, wiping her nose. “I’m sorry, Bubs. I wasn’t loving yesterday.”
Her pretty tail wags with not a care in the world.
“You coming upstairs with me?”
Bubbles jumps straight on Ambrose’s unmade bed, rolling in the scent of him, while the smell of something else makes my nose scrunch.
I shift into his bathroom, a mess of blood and vomit greeting me.
It wouldn’t be fair to leave all this here for him to come home to tomorrow.
With my hair already in its messy top knot, I step over the mess to get to his under-sink cabinet, where I can only imagine how many bottles of bleach are kept.
So, with the bleach, his trash can, and a whole lot of toilet paper, I clean until the floor shines and I’m choking on fumes.
Washing my hands to get rid of the strong chemical smell, I use the fluffiest towel to dry them before stepping back into the bedroom.
Bubbles rolls around on her back, her teeth pulling the sheets with her. I catch sight of the old pizza that she won’t touch and add that, along with the slice from the floor, into the trash.
Returning, I say, “I take it you’re not gonna help me look for his wallet.”
She makes one of those funny noises that only dogs do.
I scan the morbidly colored room, opening the drapes before I do anything else. Light attacks my eyes. This room is directly in line with the sun, despite all the trees surrounding the house.
Careening slowly, I take in every inch of his space. There’s no wallet on his dresser, nor is it on either of his nightstands.
I open the drawer closest to me, nearest to the side I found him on.
Bingo.
The worn faux leather flaps open to reveal a driver’s license with the cutest ID photo.
Too many coins fall out as I lift it, all landing on some kind of letter below.
The words, Last Will and Testament stand out. Fear lifts it into the air, fear that looks a lot like my hand with its painted nails.
Was he planning his death all along?
I blink away the thought, my eyes landing on more words, on an address that he’s become the sole owner of.
It’s that house.
My blood runs cold. Running away from that place in the snow, I had no idea the house address. There are no memories of numbers on the door or signs nearby, but we found it years later. Revisited it behind the safety of a laptop screen, in the hopes of finding some kind of closure.
Ambrose was the one to close the page, seeing the blurred-out face of a man we both knew too well as he loitered around a newer-looking car. He deemed then and there that we’d spent enough time in that place, seen enough of that man.
And now, he owns his house.
It’s like a cruel joke.
I know it’s wrong, but I keep reading the letter not addressed to me, taking in words and choppy sentences from a dying woman who claimed Ambrose was her only living friend.
How she was sorry for the things her husband had done to him and his little sister.
How she wanted to help by giving him access to all his awful memories with a key and house deed.
Okay, so that last part isn’t exactly what she wrote.
Chuckles’ wife suggested selling it and using the money to start a better future.
A better future that’ll be tainted by blood money. Blood Ambrose shed while he unknowingly earned it.
I’ve read enough.
Stuffing the letter back in his drawer, I crease it a little more than it originally was, but I don’t give it another thought.
I don’t give that clown another thought, or his weird fucking wife, who stood by and let it happen.
I close the drawer, needing to shut away that part of my life while I’m here alone. And I step out of the room, snapping my fingers for Bubbles to follow.