Page 8 of Trailer Park Billionaire (Distinguished Billionaires #3)

HELENA

B ad decisions.

They’ll probably be the last to leave me.

A sharp pain in my palm makes me jolt awake. It’s pitch black. My head is pounding. So is my hand; I can feel the blood pulsing through it.

A bed. I’m sitting in a bed. There’s a window to my left and a large painting adorning the wall before me.

My bed.

Thank fuck.

I listen for any noise, but there is none. I am alone.

Thank fuck again.

A sigh of relief escapes me.

I had the weirdest dream. Mr. Lyon was in it. I think.

It might have been more of a nightmare.

I reach over to my nightstand and turn on the small lamp. The light stings—first my pinched eyes, then my brain. It takes a moment to adjust. Once I do, I go back to freaking out.

There’s blood everywhere. My formerly white sheets look like they were part of a murder scene. I’m still dressed in the same clothes I wore yesterday, except now they too look like the murder mystery game wasn’t a game at all.

What the fuck is going on here?

I try to sit up properly and cry out when my hand starts hurting once again. There’s a tiny shard of glass in it.

Motherfucker.

I pull it out and discover even more shards beside me.

When I roll out of bed, the pocket of my pants—or rather what’s inside—cuts into my leg.

Careful not to hurt myself more, I slide them off and retrieve the pieces of broken glass.

It’s not just any glass, it’s a bottle. Or at least, it used to be.

One piece reads ‘Absi,’ and suddenly everything rushes back to me. At least everything until that bottle.

My grandpa.

The painting.

The party.

The bottle of absinthe.

The gallery.

That fucking gallery.

The bottle that went through their window.

The bottle that I threw through their window.

Standing in the empty street.

Realizing I had just jeopardized everything I have worked for so hard.

Picking up the evidence that had my fingerprints all over it.

Rushing away.

Fuck.

I squeeze the piece of glass in my hand and throw it against the wall.

I’m not sure what satisfaction in a situation like this is supposed to feel like, but standing there, staring at the shattered gallery window, that had felt a lot more like panic than satisfaction. It definitely didn’t feel like justice.

This isn’t me.

This is not who I am.

Not anymore.

The police didn’t catch me last night, and they’re not here yet. Maybe they don’t know it was me. Maybe there weren’t any cameras. Maybe my bad decisions aren’t catching up to me just yet.

Outside, sirens echo in the distance. I freeze, standing still like a statue—not moving, not breathing, just listening as the noise slowly travels in another direction. They’re not for me. I breathe.

Evidence.

They might not be coming for me yet, but the evidence needs to go.

So I wrap my hand in an old T-shirt, strip off all my clothes, and throw them onto the bed.

Then I gather every last piece of glass I can find and toss it on there as well.

I strip the duvets and pillowcases and add them to the pile.

Repeat offender.

Ashlynn Smoulder pops into my head. She got a year and a half for the first arson she committed. Five for the second. Good cellmate though. Great cook.

I take the edges of my bed sheet and bundle everything up, checking every corner of the apartment again for anything I might have missed.

Justice Harper. One year for assaulting her abusive ex. Ten for getting rid of him permanently.

When I can’t find anything else, I grab a trash bag and stuff all the incriminating evidence inside.

Sasha Chatham. One year for embezzlement. Released right after I got in. Back for another three years before I got out.

The clock reads 4:11 AM and I have no time to waste. I search for the trash pickup schedule for our area, only to find it was picked up two days ago. Maybe I could throw it in a coffee shop dumpster around the corner. But there might be cameras. Not ideal.

On a whim, I look up the schedule for the area around the museum and find that it’s today. Perfect.

Without wasting another second, I hop into the shower, pop a painkiller, bandage my hand, get dressed, and pop another painkiller. The wound is still pounding—like a gavel at an art auction… or in a courtroom.

At 4:30 AM, I leave the apartment building, the trash bag rolled as tightly as possible and shoved into a backpack. By now, the snow has stopped and turned into a gray slurry of dirt. Only bits and pieces remain covered in untouched white.

One bus and a subway ride later, I arrive at work.

It’s still dark, so I’m pretty sure no one sees me when I toss the trash bag into one of the dumpsters out back.

I breathe a sigh of relief and hurry inside through the back door.

Apart from one of our security guards, no one else seems to be in yet.

According to my phone, it’s 5:05 AM. And apparently, I also have three missed calls from Elaine from last night.

When I enter my lab, I don’t turn on the light. I just stand in front of the window, waiting for trash collection.

Coincidentally, that’s also how I feel: like absolute trash waiting to be picked up.

Only that it’ll be the police doing the picking up instead.

And it would serve me right. I don’t care about the St. Clair’s gallery window—they have it and so much more coming—but I do care about not being an idiot, and about not going back to prison.

It’s only once the truck arrives and empties the dumpsters, that I exhale for what feels like a solid minute. I watch my breath fog up the window. That’s it—evidence gone, guilt compacted, all tied up in a squeezed little trash bag.

I wish grief could be handled that efficiently.

Which is when it hits me like a truck: I am alone now.

Completely and utterly alone.

My grandpa wasn’t just my last remaining family. He was my history. My link to the past. The last person who remembered what my dad sounded like when he laughed. Or what my mom even looked like. Now, all of that is gone. Erased.

“Here you are!” Elaine comes in blazing before the sun has fully made it over the horizon, which is unusual.

She’s never in before 9 AM. “I was looking for you,” she says, and gently strokes my arm.

She knows I am not much of a hugger so, I think, this is her way of comforting me without making me too uncomfortable. “Did he?—”

“Yeah.” I nod, and feel my mouth fill with dust again.

“Sorry, I need water,” I explain, slide her hand off me and walk over to the sink.

The cool liquid runs straight from the faucet into my mouth, then I let it wash all over my face.

It cuts my breathing off for a few seconds—which, for whatever reason, calms me down a bit.

Elaine is speechless. At least until she remembers the script and says what she’s supposed to say in a situation like this. “I am so, so sorry, dear.”

I don’t even have to turn around to see the expression on her face. It’s the same one Sienna gave me yesterday. The same one everyone plastered on whenever they saw me after my dad died. I know I can’t blame her. Or anyone, really. What else could they do?

But I’ve had enough of that damned expression. It’s like it’s been following haunting me.

“I went by your apartment just now, hoping to find you since I couldn’t reach you by phone. I wanted to let you know that you can take off as long as you need. Don’t worry about the paintings or anything else. I can cover for you.”

Lying in bed does sound tempting right now.

I could certainly use the sleep. But I also know that it would give occasion for thoughts to manifest and linger—thoughts I cannot allow in.

I turn off the water, dry my face with a towel, and look out the window at the empty dumpsters that are scattered across the lot.

That’s what happens when I do allow them in.

And it’s what eventually gets you arrested.

And then thrown back into jail.

“No. I need to work,” I answer flatly. I need to follow my routine.

“Helena,” Elaine sighs and gently pats my back, “you need to take care of yourself. You need to grieve. Take your time. We will be fine here without you for a couple of days, or even weeks. If you’d like, I can even help you with funeral arrange?—”

“No,” I interrupt her, having had enough of this conversation.

Sticking to my schedule, working—that’s how I take care of myself.

That’s how I keep away from trouble, from more bad decisions.

It’s how my grandpa taught me. It’s how I made it here in the first place.

“Thank you, Elaine. I know you mean well. But I want to work. I need to work. There’s lots to do. So… if you don’t mind.”

My boss gives me an understanding nod, squeezes my arm once, and reluctantly walks towards the door. For a second, I think there’s a tear on her cheek, but it’s probably just light reflecting.

“If there’s anything I can do, let me know, alright?”

“Thank you,” I say again, chewing on more dust.

The rest of the day, I sit in front of the painting I need to work on and don’t move.

I don’t pick up a paintbrush. I don’t go out to eat.

I don’t even use the bathroom. I just sit there and stare at the painting—at those sweeping strokes of red and blue that twist into each other.

A muddy tangle of emotions, indeed. Red and blue should turn into some sort of violet or purple or magenta or indigo—but here, today, it just looks like a muddy gray.

Maybe it wasn’t such a bad decision by the artist after all. The mud resonates with me today.

The offices start to empty around 5; most people are gone by 6 PM.

When the museum turns quiet again, I finally manage to pick up a brush.

That’s usually my favorite time of the day.

It’s why I’m always the first one in and the last one out of the office.

If daylight wasn’t vital for part of my work, I would probably just do night shifts instead.