Page 45 of Loss and Damages
“The SCPD is still working with the cell phone carrier. The owner didn’t register the prepaid device, but they may have purchased minutes with a credit or debit card.”
“They paid for the phone in cash.”
“Yes, but refilling a burner phone online is easier than going to a store and buying a refill card.”
“If they’ve had it long enough to run low on minutes.”
“The call log will indicate if they’ve used it enough to warrant more minutes, but the carrier is dragging their feet. They don’t think the investigation is warranted.”
“Despite the fact they threatened Miss Ferrell and admitted to breaking into her gallery and destroying the art inside it.”
Duncan meets my eyes in the rearview mirror. “There’s no proof that’s what they said.”
“Fuck,” I mutter. No, only my word and the fact I can repeat verbatim what that slimeball said to me while I stood in Jemma’s kitchen, but that means jack shit.
I turn my gaze to the window.
This is the kind of bullshit I’ve been dealing with since my father has handed me more and more responsibility.
He endures it as it comes, expecting the hate and derision.
Bodyguards are a part of everyday life, one posted outside the shitter because that’s not the kind of throne my father plans to die on.
In a stuffy office located at the rear of the church, I have a meeting with the pastor and the director of the shelter and halfway houses.
Afterward, the director gives me a tour of the homeless shelter, and I can imagine Jemma and how she would jump in to help.
I wouldn’t be able to drag her away from the nursery and the children who don’t have a permanent home in which to lay their heads, and she would shoot me barbed looks as if to say, “Your bank account is worth more to you than these people? These lives? When you already have so much?”
The halfway houses are in desperate need of repair, the furniture donated, the carpet stained and threadbare.
The buildings should be torn down, asbestos packed into the walls, lead in the paint.
The homeless shelter and halfway houses are the largest programs of their kind in St. Charlotte but no matter how many fundraisers are thrown or grants awarded, there isn’t enough money to go around.
The director introduces me to several men and women who are using the facility to find their footing, and after listening to their stories, despite my mother’s disregard and my father’s thirst for the dollar, my own life seems downright blissful.
We talk about the future of the buildings, of the blocks as a whole.
The pastor wants to move his congregation to a smaller church because the offerings collected on Sundays aren’t enough to pay the bills of a space that size and don’t keep his parsonage afloat.
That particular issue has nothing to do with me, and I arrange the sale of the building and land.
On top of what he’ll earn from the sale, I’ll give the pastor what he needs to move his congregation to a smaller church a few miles away, and we’ll turn the building into whatever space the homeless shelter needs.
Offices, a separate daycare, a preschool.
That’s not my wheelhouse and I don’t plan to have an active part in it.
Just knowing I’m starting to turn the family business around is enough.
The pastor, director, and I plan to meet again to finalize the sale and start renovations of the halfway houses. The people who are trying to make their lives better deserve better, and thanks to Jemma, they’ll get it.
Children play ball in the grass as we stand on the sidewalk, and the director shakes my hand, hope gleaming in his eyes for the first time in probably years. It’s tough work, what he’s doing, and it will finally pay off.
“Where to?” Duncan asks as I settle into the backseat.
What I wouldn’t give to spend time with Jemma tonight in a nice restaurant, eat a good meal and listen to her talk about how she started painting or if she went to art school.
There’s so much I don’t know about her and I want to know it all, but that will have to wait.
I won’t drive out to Hollow Lake again until I can offer her more than empty promises about how I’m going to change.
“My office.”
My father will want proof I’m doing what he told me to do. I don’t owe my mother a damned thing, but I want to see her out of a loveless marriage. Their divorce will go quickly and smoothly considering who’s involved, and she can spend the rest of her life in the arms of the man she’s truly loved.
If my grandfather were still alive, I’d ask him what right he thought he had bartering his daughter for so little as blending two families.
Jemma’s family will become mine and mine will become hers, but I have a feeling she’ll be more comfortable with my family than I will be with hers.
A smile plays with my mouth, and I purse my lips, unaccustomed to the feeling.
Jemma and my nonna . God. I can’t wait to see how they get along.
I spend the rest of the evening at the office and watch the sun set through the floor-to-ceiling windows. My father is satisfied with the proof. The contracts of intent to purchase we signed at the meeting will start the process for the church, the homeless shelter, and the halfway houses.
Pride gleams in his eyes, and it’s the look I’ve craved all my life. My father, the great Raphael Milano, proud of me because of something I’ve done. He squeezes my shoulder, but the act of affection means little to me now.
“Well done.”
“Thank you.”
“Let me take you out, Dom,” he says, his fingertips sparking pain in my arm. I’ve been too busy to think about my gunshot wound or how it’s healing.
“No, that’s not necessary. You should tell your mistress you’re divorcing your wife. Will she be pleased, do you think?”
My father rubs his chin, contemplating. “I suspect she might. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.”
When I know he’s no longer on the executive floor, I call my mother.
She betrays her surprise and relief, gasping, the intake of breath carrying over the line.
Perhaps she thought I couldn’t convince my father to let her go.
She whispers, “Thank you,” and her voice fades to a deep silence.
Knowing this will be the last time I’ll ever hear from her, I expect to feel something, but there’s nothing.
She’s gone and she can finally be happy.
I won’t take credit, but I’m glad to have had a hand in it.
The picketers have given up for the day by the time I head to Leo’s, but I still send a car ahead of me. I wanted to stop spending my nights there, but without Jemma, it’s the only place I can find that can ease my heart. I’m closer to him after his death than I ever was when he was alive.
I check in with the two security guards watching Jemma’s cottage and gallery, but nothing more has happened and they don’t have anything to report.
Before I go to bed, I email my PA and ask her to set up a meeting with Mayor Wilkins.
We can go ahead with his New Neighborhood Initiative, pretend that it had been in the works all along.
I also tell her to contact the news channels and inform them I’m going to hold a press conference in the lobby of our building.
The second I announce my plans, the violence will stop and Jemma and I can be together.
I miss her so much, and now there’s nothing standing in my way.