Page 18 of Trailer Park Billionaire (Distinguished Billionaires #3)

I toss one last trash bag into the big dumpster behind the building when something catches my eye. The corner of a frame is peeking out from under torn-up cardboard boxes. I hesitate for only a second before climbing up onto the dumpster rim, curiosity winning over my sense of hygiene.

“Helena?” Ben calls from behind me.

“One second,” I grunt, stretching further, my fingers grazing the edge…

Ben sighs dramatically. “Ah, what a proud moment. My little trash panda is finally embracing her true form.”

I freeze mid-dangle. “What did you just call me?”

“Oh, don’t be mad,” he coos and leans over the rim of the dumpster beside me. “You’re a raccoon mother now. This makes perfect sense.” He grabs the frame and helps me down.

I take the torn canvas—the one that has my grandpa blowing the birthday horn—from him, and consider setting some boundaries here.

As much of a help he’s been, and as much as I have not disliked having him around today, there’s no reason for us to get this close.

Getting close only leads to friendships.

Friendships lead to emotions. Emotions lead to bad decisions. And bad decisions lead to prison.

“You are not calling me Trash Panda.”

“Just Panda then.”

I roll my eyes and head back toward the RV. He’s laughing as he follows, and for some reason, it makes the weight of today feel a little less heavy.

Before I can dwell on that too much, I remember one last thing. I retrieve a small painting from one of the boxes, tell Ben I’ll just be a second, and head back inside. At reception, I ask Paul for directions, then make my way up to the eighth floor. I knock on apartment 808 and wait.

The door swings open a few moments later and a woman, wrapped in a crimson robe, appears behind it, squinting at me.

“Hey,” I say. “I’m sorry I didn’t stop by earlier.”

“Helena?” Robyn asks, apparently somewhat blind without her glasses. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m sure you’ve been going through it. And it’s not like you owe me anything, dear. I’m just glad you are here now.” She gives me a sympathetic smile and steps to the side. “Please, come in.”

I do as asked, and inadvertently take a look around her apartment. It’s the same layout as my grandpa’s, but instead of paintings, her walls are mostly covered in newspaper clippings, photos, post-its, maps—and red strings connecting everything. Weird.

“Take a seat.” She beckons me over to a little sofa, and starts filling two glasses with what looks like whiskey, then hands me one of them. “Grief goes down smoother with a strong drink,” she explains, settling into a cozy armchair.

Not wanting to be rude, I thank her, take a sip, and cough. It’s strong and smoky.

She chuckles. “Ah, like grandfather, like granddaughter. Ed didn’t like it either.”

I set the glass down on the table in front of me. “Speaking of the devil, that’s actually why I’m here. I just—” I hold up the small painting, hoping to God it’s her chest in it. “I think he would have wanted you to have this.”

Robyn gasps, a mix of delight and sorrow lighting up her face.

Her hands first fly to her mouth, then out to accept the painting.

“How did you know?” she asks, lifting one of her breasts slightly.

“The left one is a little bigger, indeed.” She chuckles to herself, though there’s a note of pain in it. “Or maybe it’s just a bit saggier.”

Slightly flustered, I watch as she carefully props the canvas against a candle on the table.

“Robyn,” I sigh, “I don’t want to stay too long, and you can tell me to leave if you don’t want to talk about it, but… would you mind telling me how it happened?”

The room goes still in an instant, and I immediately regret asking. After a long beat, she exhales—slow and uneven—then starts murmuring, “Well, he was painting.”

My stomach tightens even more than it already had, and I regret the question all over again.

“He was working on something one moment—” Robyn swallows, her eyes fixed on the floor. “And the next, I hear something small drop. His paintbrush. And a second later, I hear him fall next to it.” She wipes at her eye. “And then… nothing.”

Nothing.

Nothing but his pained expression.

The silence hangs heavy between us.

“I… I did what I could, but?—”

“No, no, Robyn. It’s not your fault,” I cut in gently to stop her from blaming herself. “There was nothing you could have done.”

She sighs shakily. “I’m still sorry. I held his hand. Told him not to go, but…”

I wipe away a tear. “You have nothing to be sorry for. I’m just glad you were with him at the end. That he wasn’t alone.”

And I really mean it. I really do.

She presses a trembling hand to her forehead, as if trying to push the memory back inside.

I swallow against the lump in my throat and take another big sip of the whiskey—which immediately sends me into another coughing fit.

Robyn snickers a little and dabs her tears with a tissue.

“Say, and this might sound a little odd, but did you notice anything strange around his apartment? Did he maybe mention something out of the ordinary?”

Did he meet with a bunch of violent gangsters who now want more money from me than I’ll be able to save in the next ten years?

Robyn shakes her head slowly, her brain obviously processing the question. “You don’t think… You don’t think someone could have killed him? I mean, I was there, so… no. Maybe poison?” she offers hesitantly.

“No, no,” I say quickly. I have considered something like it, but it just doesn’t seem like those guys’ handiwork.

They’re not exactly the subtle kind. Plus, he obviously was useful to them.

“Nothing like that. I just… had some old acquaintances of his drop by recently and wondered if you had seen them around. I lost their contact info.”

Robyn tilts her head, and I’m not entirely sure if she buys my lie, but dragging her into this won’t help anyone.

“No,” she says eventually, “I’m afraid I didn’t see or meet anyone. But I can let you know if I run into someone around here.”

I nod, slap my thighs, and stand up. “Anyway, I don’t want to intrude any longer than I already have.”

My host rises too, steps forward suddenly, and before I can react, pulls me into a brief but firm hug. I let her and even hug her back, hoping it’ll make her feel better.

“You’re welcome to visit anytime,” she says softly. “Whether it’s to reminisce about your grandpa, or even just for a sip of whiskey.”

I swallow hard, nod again, and thank her, then turn to leave. On my way out, I glance over at the wall of red string once more. “You’re not secretly a serial killer, are you?”

Robyn laughs. “Oh, my, no. I don’t dabble in murder,” she answers. “But it is important to plan a good heist or robbery now and then. Helps keep the synapses firing on all cylinders.”

Pulling off a heist or robbery with my dead grandpa’s now ex-girlfriend will just be my Plan B for now.

“Certainly. That makes sense,” I say. “Just don’t get caught.”

Robyn knocks on her wooden door three times, which makes me flinch.

Then she waves goodbye as I head for the elevator to go back to my grandpa’s floor, where I find Ben leaning over the railing, gazing down at the small park behind the building.

He turns when he hears me coming, a worried look on his face.