Page 98 of What You left in Me

I was gone a week. That’s what I did with it. I hunted the ghost that killed my mother, pinned it to a ledger, and laid the first match at Eleanor’s feet.

Rhode Island smelled like damp brick and cheap coffee. The train rattled me there, but I’d been there before— years back, trailing after Dad when he thought he could teach me something about “the business of art.” That was before I realized art was just another kind of money-laundering for people who wanted to pretend they had taste. The place hadn’t changed. It was still a town where ambition wore too much lipstick and desperation hid in every alley.

Eric slid into step beside me, smooth as ever, the kind of man who could charm the last drink out of a dying man’s hand. Jim lagged behind, hoodie up, tapping his iPad like it was an emotional support animal. He muttered about hating daylight and germs, but he was there because I paid him enough to shut up and because he liked being close to the fire, even if he pretended he didn’t.

“You sure about this dive?” Eric asked, tilting his chin at the bar ahead of us. Dory’s. Peeling paint, neon beer sign, a door that stuck like it was hiding something inside.

“This was her nest,” I said. “Where she sharpened her teeth.”

Jim groaned. “God, I hate it when you get poetic. Just say she worked here like a normal psycho.”

I didn’t answer. Because he was wrong. She hadn’t just worked there. She’d built something there. A persona. A ladder. And every rung on it had been carved out of someone else’s spine.

Inside, the bar looked exactly like it should: sticky floors, cracked vinyl booths, the smell of old lemon cleaner fighting a losing war against years of spilled beer. The woman behind the counter was cunning, late fifties maybe, with the look of someone who’d seen too much to be impressed. Selena, according to Jim’s payroll records.

“Beer or questions?” she said as we slid onto stools. “You can’t have both.”

“Questions,” I answered. “Money after.”

“Money before,” Selena shot back, palm out.

I peeled off enough bills to make honesty sport instead of charity. She tucked it into her apron and leaned on the counter like she was settling in for a show.

“Eleanor worked here,” I said.

“Everybody worked here,” Selena replied. “Some left with dignity. She left with a man’s last name.”

Eric chuckled softly, nudging her along. “Did she stand out?”

Selena smirked, her southern accent thickening. “She walked like men should move. Talked like she was always selling something, even if it was just herself. She poured drinks, sure, but she spent her afternoons at gallery openings, smiling at anyone with cufflinks. Knew how to listen like a priest andsmile like a shark.” She gave me a long, assessing look. “You look like someone who’s been fed to that smile.”

I said nothing.

Jim piped up, nervously tapping on his iPad. “Payroll shows cash advances around the time…” He glanced at me, faltered. “Around the time your mom died.”

“Say it,” I told him.

He swallowed. “Around then. Extra shifts, extra cash. But here’s the kicker, there’s a second ledger. Her boss’s brother signed off the books. Money in, money out, perfectly timed. Not huge transfers. Just consistent. Enough to grease the right palms.”

Selena nodded, confirming. “She was ambitious. Didn’t waste time. Said Richard Wagner was the weather, inevitable, going to change your plans whether you liked it or not. Said he’d never leave his wife. Then, she smiled. God, I hated that smile, and said, ‘Not unless…’”

“Not unless what?” Eric asked, playing dumb.

“Not unless the story changes,” Selena said flatly. “And women who smile like that don’t mean divorce. They mean the knife behind the curtain.”

My throat burned. My mother’s face flickered in my mind, alive and laughing, running beside me. Then, the morgue version, lifeless and pale. My hands tightened on the bar.

Jim broke the silence with his nervous typing. “Emails from a gallery back office ‘tailored installs’ billed at the exact weeks those transfers hit. That’s code for cash. Burners connected to gallery numbers. I traced them. Same towers Eleanor’s gallery office pinged in. It’s airtight.”

Eric spread photos and copies of ledgers on the bar like exhibits in a trial. “She wasn’t just in the right place at the right time. She built the place. She built the fucking crime scene.”

I pocketed the drive Jim pushed toward me. Photos. Files. Proof. Receipts carved in binary. Enough to choke her.

Selena poured herself a shot and tossed it back. “So, what now?”

I met her gaze, flat and observant. “Now? I burn her. Without mercy. Your part is done.”

I left money on the counter. More than enough to keep her mouth shut. Outside, the air tasted like rot, and my chest felt full of knives.