Page 41 of Trailer Park Billionaire

14

HELENA

This is weird. Which, I guess, makes sense—because there are a lot of weird things about Ben Lyon. Then again, maybe that makes this less weird?

I shake the thoughts out of my mind and continue my pursuit.

Wait, am I the onestalkingfollowing him now?

Maybe he’s just going to buy groceries. Maybe he’s just out for a long walk.

He did say he had some business to take care of. So maybe he’s going to wherever that business is. Somehow something still feels off about this.

I keep following him, using all the stealth I can muster. I duck behind trees, behind lampposts (which barely cover me), and behind bus stops. I walk close behind other people for cover, rush from street corner to street corner—and am surprisingly good at this, I think. Or at least I would be if I weren’t lugging all these art supplies with me.

Ben walks for quite a while. We leave the nice part of town and enter the neighboring, somewhat dodgy part—the one that’s only just starting to get gentrified. It seems strange thatsomeone like Mr. Lyon would have business here. Then again, he never struck me as your typical rich asshole. Maybe he’s a different kind of rich asshole. One who runs a giant drug ring.

Maybe he knows my attackers.

Maybe that’s why he’s been following me.

Maybe they are a rival gang.

“No, that doesn’t make any sense,” I say to myself.

My grandpa definitely wasn’t involved with a local drug ring. I shouldn’t be jumping to conclusions. There’s probably a perfectly reasonable explanation for Ben… entering the trailer park up ahead.

I frown and duck behind a parked car as he disappears into a row of white and gray trailers. I pause at the entrance, hugging my art supplies like a bulky emotional support animal. This isn’t exactly what I expected when I imagined Ben’s ‘business’.

Shiny offices? Absolutely. Busy factories? Sure. Sleazy backroom deals? Probably. Muddy trailer parks? Not so much.

What the hell is he doing here?

Ben Lyon—the man who wears suits like they were personally designed for, and stitched onto his body—just walked into a trailer park like he belongs.

More importantly… what am I doing here?

Maybe this is a front.

Tax evasion. Drug labs. Gun smuggling. Or maybe…

I chew on my lip.

There’s only one way to find out…

I stride forward with what I hope looks like the confidence of someone who belongs here, and not a woman wondering whether she’s about to walk in on a drug deal. There are kids playing on a swing around the corner, which puts my mind slightly at ease. I make my way to the trailer I think Ben disappeared into and try to peek through the window, but can’t see anything.

It’s not like I have anything to lose,I think to myself and simply knock on the door.

First there’s silence.

Then, shuffling.

The door swings open—and there he is.

Ben Lyon.

Ben Lyon in Crocs, to be precise.