Page 12 of Trailer Park Billionaire

It’s 8:10 PM now. My grandpa’s friends were expecting us ten minutes ago.

I could call them, but this feels like an in-person sort of news. So I head in the direction of the bar that they’re gathered in. It’s maybe another ten minutes by foot from where I am.

The snow is blowing from behind, so I make it in seven. When I throw open the door, all heads turn to me and, instinctively, everyone starts cheering. At least until they noticethat the birthday grandpa isn’t here. The heavy door creaks shut behind me. My clothes are drenched, as is the hair clinging to my face.

Before anyone can ask, I begin to speak. “Thank you, everyone, for coming.” I look around. They’re all here. All his friends. “I don’t really know how to say this…”

The expression on my grandpa’s face appears before my eyes.

Not peaceful.

“So I guess I’ll just say it. Uh, Ed passed away earlier today.” Everyone goes even more quiet immediately. Only the jazz music keeps blaring softly from the speakers in the background. “Heart attack. Didn’t suffer.” I omit the amount of suffering and look around. Everyone seems stunned. Of course they are. “The tab is paid for. So please have a drink on me.” I discover Arthur Chokane, my grandpa’s old cellmate, who is standing closest to me. “Oh, hey, Artie the murderer.” All eyes shoot to him. “In the game. He would have been the murderer in the game,” I clarify. “Anyway, end of announcement, I guess.”

Artie steps up to me with that look people wear when someone close to you just died. I know the look. I remember it well.

“I am so, so sorry, Helena,” he says the only thing you’re allowed to say in a situation like this, a bottle of absinthe still in his hand.

“Well, you didn’t kill him,” I reply, and reach for the alcohol. Then I turn around and head back into the cold.

Besides, he didn’t suffer much.

The cork comes off with a loud plop, and the liquid burns its way down my throat. At least, it should. I can’t even feel it anymore. I can’t feel anything.

I cross through a park, my breath rising in small, frantic clouds as my thoughts tumble over each other. I think about the empty chair in front of the easel. I think about the years he lostin prison. I think about the unfinished canvases. I think about the people who had put him there. I think about his face. Pained. About their smug smiles.

My chest tightens. I squeeze the bottle in my hand, then I take another big swig.

It’s all so goddamn unfair. Life. Death. Everything.

I roam around aimlessly until eventually I end up where I had to end up: a gallery.

Not just any gallery.

Thegallery.

The gallery that is owned by the people who put both of us behind bars.

The St. Clairs.

Standing in the street, snow swirling around me, I squint at the displayed paintings, trying to make out the artist. They look old.

I wonder how much they’re charging. Whether the amount for one painting could make up for all the years my grandpa lost. All the years I lost. All the time we lost together.

Another swig and the bottle in my hand is empty. The cork goes back on with a short screech.

His pained face flashes before my eyes again.

Then the bottle goes flying through the window.

4

BEN

“Take a left.”

“No,” Alexei objects, “she went right. It looked like she went right.”

In the distance, sirens start sounding.