Among Her Bones

Chapter 1

Chapter one

“What do you mean, you’re evicting us?”

I cradled my phone between my shoulder and my jaw, shifting my son Henry higher on my hip. His little body was hotter than it should’ve been as he nestled closer, his limp limbs making him feel heavier than he was.

“I am sorry, Ms. Dupont,” the man on the other line replied. “With my client’s passing, we have evaluated all his properties, and the one you are living is not even worth the upkeep.”

I moved the phone to my other ear, hoping I’d misheard. “But—”

“Mama,” Henry whimpered, patting my cheek, “my throat hurts.”

“As Mr. Proffitt’s attorney,” the man continued, his voice bland, unconcerned, “I have been asked to advise in the disposition of his less valuable assets as his son is far too busy to handle it himself. Unfortunately, your location was never a desirable neighborhood and is getting worse, so I must sell the property before it is a total loss. Please understand—this is purely a business decision. You are no different from than any of the others being disposed of.”

I hugged Henry a little closer, squeezing my eyes shut to rein in my rising panic. “Mr. Briggs, your client and I had an understanding. He lowered my rent until I could get back on my feet. I understand you’re trying to do your job, but I just need a little more time—”

“Mama…”

“Shh, shh, baby,” I consoled, tears blurring my view of his sweet face, flushed with fever. “I know. We’re going to the doctor.”

“I really am sorry, Ms. Dupont,” Mr. Briggs told me, sounding almost sincere. “If there was another way…”

“There is another way!” I snapped. “You could honor Mr. Proffitt’s promises.”

“Ms. Dupont—”

“Where am I supposed to go?” I choked out, trying to keep the tears out of my voice and failing.

“I work in a coffee shop making barely enough to pay what I already do. My five-year-old son is sick—I don’t even know how I’m going to pay for a doctor’s visit or any medicine he needs because my job’s insurance sucks. And now you’re kicking me out?”

Henry was crying quietly now, snuggling close to my chest. “Mama…”

Hopelessness squeezed my heart. My knees buckled, and I sank to the floor, cradling Henry in my arms, no longer pretending to hold back the tears. “I’m sorry, Mr. Briggs. I can’t do this right now.”

Not waiting for a response, I hung up and tossed my phone aside, then pressed my forehead into the heel of my palm, sobbing silently so I wouldn’t upset Henry.

What the hell was I supposed to do? I’d vowed—sworn to myself—I’d never again be without a roof over my head, never let Henry feel the same gnawing fear and uncertainty I’d known as a child as my mother dragged us from shelters to friends’ couches to shitty apartments that reeked of stale cigarette smoke and unrealized dreams. We’d never stayed in one place long enough to feel secure or know what it was like to have an actual home—or even understand what that word truly meant.

A few weeks after finding out I was pregnant with Henry, I’d moved into the little house—really just a one-bedroom box with thin walls that rattled when the wind blew—thanks to the kind old man who’d been a regular at the coffee shop.

Montgomery Proffitt (or Mr. Monty as I called him) had been there for me ever since.

He’d lowered my rent when the pandemic shut everything down, helped me with utilities when what little money I’d saved ran out, pushed me to finish my degree, even helped me find scholarships and grants to make it possible.

Mr. Monty had been my guardian angel.

And now he was gone.

A massive heart attack had taken him two months ago, according to Mr. Briggs when he’d first contacted me.

I hadn’t even known until after the funeral, so I never had the chance to say goodbye, no chance to thank his family for all he’d done.

Since getting the news, I’d not only grieved for one of the few people who’d ever treated me with kindness and dignity, but I’d also lived in fear that his family wouldn’t be as compassionate.

Turns out I’d been right to worry.

I sniffed and wiped my eyes with the back of my hand then shifted my now-sleeping son on my lap. “Okay. Okay,” I murmured, squaring my shoulders, mind racing.

I’d figure something out. I always did. When my mom had kicked me out for being pregnant with Henry, I’d felt the same hopelessness.

I’d dropped out of college with only a year left, but I’d found a job, a place to live at least—even if it wasn’t much.

I had survived then. I would survive now.

We’d be okay, I told myself so emphatically I almost believed it.

My phone buzzed on the floorboards, the vibration traveling through the wood and up into my bones. I reached automatically for the device, but hesitated, my hand hovering inches away, not sure if I should answer, but at the same time knowing I had to. A chill rippled through me when I picked it up.

“Ms. Dupont?” asked a male voice I didn’t recognize and yet was somehow vaguely familiar.

I cleared my throat, shaking off whatever had come over me. “Yes? Who’s this?”

Before he could answer, a burst of pain flared behind my eyes only to immediately dull to a persistent throbbing.

Damn it. What the hell?

“This is Whit Proffitt,” the man said, breaking through the lingering haze clouding my brain. “Montgomery Proffitt was my father.”

My stomach sank.

Perfect.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Proffitt, your father’s attorney already told me that my son and I are being kicked out.”

“That’s why I’m calling,” he replied. “I just spoke to Mr. Briggs. He shared how his conversation with you went, so I wanted to call myself. I’m sorry for how he broke the news to you. It could’ve been handled better.”

“I don’t know how exactly that kind of news could be handled better,” I retorted. “No matter how you say it, I’m still going to be homeless.”

“Ms. Dupont—"

“I need to take my son to the doctor, Mr. Proffitt,” I interrupted, impatient to be off the phone. “I have to go.”

I hung up before he could respond, then got to my feet, groaning under Henry’s dead weight.

I kissed his damp curls, then surveyed the dingy walls of our little house.

Yellowing paint. Grease splatter baked in from decades of various renters’ fried chicken, pork chops, okra.

Furniture thrifted or scavenged. Second-hand art.

Almost everything I owned was someone else’s discarded trash I’d snatched up, pretending the mismatched styles were eclectic.

The place was a dump, no question. It was no wonder Whit Proffitt and his father’s attorney were eager to offload it. But it was my home.

And I was losing it.

I closed my eyes and took several deep breaths, the last of the pain from my headache thankfully tapering off.

Then I snatched up my purse and keys and carried Henry out to my old sedan.

His eyes fluttered open briefly when I sat him in his booster seat, and he gave me a small, fever-weary smile that pierced straight through the dark cloud descending on me.

Whatever else was going on would have to wait until after the clinic. He was my top priority. Always. The rest was just shit to figure out.

An hour and a half later, I stepped out of the community clinic, medicine for Henry in hand and a knot in my stomach.

The visit had cost more than I’d expected—because of course it had.

But what was I supposed to do? I’d have to budget a lot tighter, maybe visit the church food pantry—something I hadn’t done in a while.

If it had just been me, I could’ve gotten by with bread and peanut butter.

But my pride wouldn’t fill Henry’s belly.

“Mama, my throat still hurts,” Henry rasped as I buckled him in, his voice so small it broke my heart.

“I know, baby,” I murmured, kissing his forehead. “We’re going to get you feeling better in no time. Should we get you some popsicles?”

He nodded, his lower lip trembling. “Orange, please, Mama.”

I pinched his chin gently. “You got it.”

I climbed into the driver’s seat and turned the key. The engine chugged and whined, then fell silent. “No, no, no. Not now…”

I tried again. Same miserable sputter. Same refusal to cooperate.

I slammed my palm against the steering wheel, a strangled sound tearing loose before I could stop it.

“Mama?” Henry asked softly. “Are you okay? We don’t have to get popsicles.”

My heart broke right down the middle. I forced a smile over my shoulder. “I’m fine, baby. The car’s being grumpy again. I’m sorry if I scared you. It’s not about the popsicles, I promise.”

My phone rang—shrill, insistent. I answered without looking.

“What?”

“Ms. Dupont—”

“Jesus, really?” I muttered. I brushed my hair back from my face and closed my eyes, emotionally exhausted. “Mr. Proffitt, I’ve got a sick kid and a broken-down car in front of the clinic. I really can’t deal with this today.”

“I think I might have a solution for you,” he said quickly, before I could hang up on him again.

“We have a property in Savannah that just became available unexpectedly. The building is still undergoing renovations, but the apartment is mostly furnished. I’ll honor my father’s arrangement for a few months.

After that, we can figure something out. ”

I sat in stunned silence, staring out the cracked windshield at the waves of heat rising from the asphalt, blurring the path before me.

A solution.

My initial impulse was to not trust his offer. I could count on one hand the times someone’s kindness to me hadn’t come with strings attached. But panic squeezed my lungs, reminding me I didn’t exactly have a lot of options.

“Ms. Dupont? Are you still there?” Mr. Proffitt asked, interrupting my warring thoughts.