Chapter 37
Dylan
I left the hospital parking garage looking over my shoulder a million times, like I always did. Most of my family acted like John Myers was dead or had given up on us. That’s also what the police had told us.
But I never believed that. A man like Myers was unpredictable. Even if he was on the run, his circumstances could change. He might then have a reason to come back. To seek revenge. To finish the job. Or God knew what else.
I pulled out into busy Boston traffic. The early morning sun sat low, flashing between buildings as glass and brick slid past my windows.
At the first traffic light, a black SUV idled behind me. Matte paint. Dark tint. No plates that I could see from this angle.
The light turned green, and traffic rolled forward. Cars thinned as I merged onto the highway. From there on out, it was a traffic-free ride to my grandma’s. Somewhere past the malls and large apartment complexes, the road opened up.
That’s when I noticed the same SUV was still behind me. Not too close, but not that far either.
I took my exit. Relief hit when I no longer saw the SUV in my rearview mirror.
By the time I reached Wellesley, everything looked so different from Boston. Old trees lined the streets. Big houses were tucked behind stone walls and perfect landscaping. Many of those mansions were worth several million.
At the highway exit, I slowed. My stomach dropped when the black SUV appeared from behind a truck and took the same exit I did. The damn thing was still behind me.
Alarm bells went off. No way someone had followed the same route all the way from the hospital by coincidence. Right?
The light turned green. But I hesitated. Horns blared behind me, angry and impatient, forcing my foot back onto the gas.
Usually it was a straight drive from here, but I took the next left into a mall parking lot, just to see what would happen.
The turn signal of my car clicked. Once. Twice. And I turned.
The SUV slowed, hesitated for a bit, then continued straight. I watched it disappear down the road, the dark shape shrinking in the distance.
Strange.
Maybe I was just being paranoid. It had been so many years since Myers had vanished. He never came for my grandma. Or Amanda.
Of course, we wanted him caught. Wanted him to face justice and rot in prison forever.
The utter incompetence of the authorities in failing to find him was unbelievable.
And, to this day, we were convinced the DA, Thomas Harlow, that prick, never truly pushed to find him, hoping Myers would finish the job and kill my grandma.
But maybe, in the end, they all were right, and Myers had died of some overdose somewhere.
The rest of the drive was peaceful. No SUV.
I slowed when I saw the large nursing home sign about fifteen minutes from my dad’s house: Senior Flower Gardens.
It sounded amazing.
It wasn’t.
If a train station bathroom and the motor vehicle administration had a child, this would be Senior Flower Gardens. Crowded to the brim. Dirt and stench everywhere.
The parking lot was a mess of cracked concrete and had a rodent problem. The building itself looked like it hadn’t been cared for in years. Even the windows looked dirty and old.
Some guy was smoking weed near the entrance, stinking the place up.
The glass doors opened automatically as I stepped in. As usual, the front desk was unmanned. Jill was most likely helping out with seniors again.
The air inside was horrible. The neglect of old bodies, smoke, and mold wasn't something anybody should have to smell.
But, like most state-run nursing homes, this place was underfunded and barely hanging on by a thread.
Down the hallway, a cart sat parked against the wall with old food trays.
I turned into the last room on the right, my grandma’s room.
When I entered, I thought I’d find her in her wheelchair looking out the window. But she wasn’t. She was still in bed, right next to her roommate, Nancy, who was still in hers. Both of them lay there, staring at the ceiling with wide, empty eyes. Not sleeping. Not talking. Just … there.
My hands curled into fists. They both should’ve been out of bed hours ago. Instead, they lay there like nobody had even checked whether they were alive today. And the room smelled like feces and urine.
“Good God, Grandma.” I rushed to her bed.
The stench of her diaper hit me instantly. Sour, foul, and unbearable. Her silver hair was flat on one side, no doubt from having her lying in the same position for too long.
Her eyes shifted toward me, slowly, with effort.
“Please tell me they at least changed you this morning,” I said, although I knew better. God … I hated this place.
The second I pulled her blanket and nightgown up her legs, I realized how bad it really was. Her diaper was swollen to the rim. My stomach turned, but my hands didn’t hesitate. They never did. Not with her. Not after everything she had done for Mom and me.
But it hurt to see her like this. It hurt so freaking much. My jaw clenched hard as hate poured through me, hot and endless. And it landed where it always did.
My worthless dad.
The man who did all this to her.
Ever since Grandma's stroke, about three months after my mom died, Grandma had been trapped inside her own body. Her mind was still in there, somewhere, but the rest of her had turned into a prison. She seemed to be holding herself together for as long as she could, using strength she didn’t really have.
And once my mom was gone, her body had given in.
Like it had been waiting to make sure my mom could leave in peace first. And only then would the curse of high blood pressure finally claim her. Not even sixty years old.
“Let’s get you clean,” I said, forcing my voice to sound calm. Grandma didn’t need my anger. She needed my love.
I walked to the closet and yanked it open. Inside sat the usual stack of supplies. Diapers. A few folded clothes and sheets.
I grabbed a fresh diaper and fresh clothes. Today was her birthday, and I refused to let her look like this place had finally killed her. So I chose the pink silk blouse. Something that still felt like her. I paired it with the black skirt. The one she’d worn to my graduation.
I grabbed the hairbrush from the bathroom too so I could make her look like a million bucks. Even if it was just for a few hours.
On the way back to the bed, my fingers trembled around the folded blouse. Just a little. Enough to notice. Enough to piss me off.
That hate for my dad was still there.
He could pay for the nicest nursing home in the state for my grandma.
The same woman who'd kept his kids alive when he was a drunk. The same woman who'd sold her house for us and stepped in when he disappeared into bars and lies. But even when Amanda wanted to help, he overruled her with a huge fit. And sweet Amanda didn't stand a chance. My dad took over her fortune like it was his. And refused to spend a dime from it on my grandma. Left her to rot in here. So this place was her only option, since she’d spent most of her money on my mom and on keeping us afloat when my mom was in jail. She’d burned through savings like it was firewood. The house she sold was worth about $450,000. Jack, the lawyer before Amanda had stepped in, took a lot of it. The rest went fast. It went to my parents’ mortgage.
It went to groceries and bills. Then, after my mom’s death and my grandma’s stroke, my dad just kept the rest, since we were still minors.
Now I was too poor as a resident to help financially, and that truth sat in my chest like a sharp knife. But I’d sworn I’d get her out of here the moment I made money. I’d sworn it so many times it had become a spell.
I pulled off my grandma’s diaper and dropped it in the trash. Then I used the wet wipes and cleaned her carefully.
“You could also take a quick bath,” I said, keeping my tone light, like this wasn’t humiliating for her.
She blinked slowly. That usually meant no.
I nodded. “Okay. We won’t.”
“Nancy,” I said to my grandma's roommate. “I’m so sorry you have to wait. I’ll get to you in a second, ok?”
Nancy made a sound that wasn’t a word, more like a rough groan, but by now I knew her sounds. It meant thank you.
Suddenly, Nurse Carol stormed in with flushed cheeks like she’d been running from room to room. She was a stocky woman with oily short hair and tired eyes that had seen too much for too little pay.
She stopped short when she saw me, and her eyes flicked to my grandma’s bed.
“Oh, God, Dylan, I’m so sorry.”
“What the hell, Carol?” I shot back.
I pulled clean underwear up my grandma’s motionless legs. “They’re lying in full diapers, and they’re still in bed. This is unacceptable. What the hell is wrong with this place?”
Carol’s mouth tightened. For a second, she looked like she might get mad. Instead, she swallowed it.
“I know,” she said. “We’re short two nurses. They quit last night.”
The words should’ve made me soften. I understood staffing shortages. I did. But my heart couldn’t take the sight of my grandma like this.
Carol rushed to my side, but I shook my head.
“Nancy needs help. I got my grandma.”
Carol nodded and wiped her brow with the back of her wrist. She quickly moved to Nancy’s bedside.
I finished with my grandma and dressed her in her blouse and skirt. Then I combed her hair. It had turned silver from the stroke. Some strands fell into place, neat and soft, and finally she looked like herself again.
“You look beautiful,” I said.
I carried her over to her wheelchair, gently set her down, and got her the hell out of this shithole.
For a few hours, at least, we’d both step into a different world.
Into a world of wealth and narcissism.
My dad’s.
* * *
I pulled through the automatic gate of my dad’s home and onto a long, curving driveway that hugged the edge of Lake Waban.
The house sat back from the road, built of old stone and wide glass.
A massive colonial mansion. Over ten thousand square feet.
Floor-to-ceiling windows caught the morning light.
Everything about the place screamed money. Pure luxury.
We had no idea how rich Amanda really was until she married my dad without a prenup.
Zach had left her an insane amount of money.
Once my mom was gone and the wedding was over, my dad stopped pretending.
He sold Amanda’s old house and made her buy this one.
Triple the square footage. Triple the statement.
He said it was for us kids. For my mom. So she could watch us from heaven, happy. He also said a bigger house meant space for a new beginning. The shameless bastard even mentioned a baby—Amanda’s ultimate dream. Becoming a biological mother, finally. Zach had never wanted kids. He hated them.
The driveway was crowded with Dad’s toys. A Porsche, his truck, and the black Mercedes were parked there like they owned the place. Amanda’s minivan was pushed to the side like the maid’s car.
Ridiculous.
As I pulled up, rage climbed up my throat.
Hot. Bitter. Sharp.
My dad had taken all my grandma’s and my mom’s money, even our shares, and made us beg for everything. And he was now letting my grandma rot in that hellhole.
I also never forgave him for all the other shit he pulled.
He cheated on my mom while she sat in jail, dying of cancer. Turned on her the second it became convenient. Accused her of murder. Planned his escape. Lined up excuses in case she was convicted. So he could walk away from us too.
And now he lived here. His dream life. With an angelic wife who went along and somehow managed to be more of a mother to his kids than he’d ever been a father.
For years after my mom died, sleep was impossible. I woke up gasping, images of my dad killing Zach burning behind my eyes. Some days, the thought followed me long after the nightmares faded. Felt more real when I was awake than it ever did in my sleep.
I moved out the moment I turned eighteen and tried to take care of my grandma as best as I could.
But even if hate twisted my stomach, I never let it show.
For my grandma. For the kids.
Even for Amanda too. None of this was her fault.
Like my mom, she was powerless against this man.
And when my mom needed her most, Amanda was there for her.
For us. She never treated us as less than her own two kids.
Sometimes, it even felt like she loved us more because we reminded her of my mom. And her biggest shame.
So, like always, I took a slow breath in. Another out. Long enough to steady myself. Long enough to make sure I didn’t walk inside ready for a fight.
I got out, walked around to the passenger side, and opened Grandma’s door.
“Let’s get inside, birthday girl.” I unbuckled her and lifted her into the wheelchair I’d pulled from the trunk. Her hands lay still in her lap as I tucked the blanket around her.
Then I closed the car door and pushed her toward the back entrance.
The designer kitchen waited on the other side of the back door.
And we went inside.