The Best of Winter Renshaw - An 8 Book Collection - Winter Renshaw Page 0,277

she releases her hold on me.

“How have you been? How are you holding up?” She rubs my arm, head tilted as she gazes up at me. “Errol misses you, you know … talks about you all the time … wonders how you’re doing … we both wonder how you’re doing …”

“I’m fine, Beth.”

I’ve never understood her affinity for me, but it was instant, from the moment he brought her home. Over the years, I’ve boiled it down to Beth’s being an only child and eagerly yearning for a chance at the kid brother she never had. I don’t think it’s anything more sinister than that. Beth is a simple woman with simple motives, most of them boiling down to things like money, status, and name recognition—three things she’s afforded by being married to my brother.

I don’t ask about Errol. She’ll just give me a canned response faker than the double-Ds protruding from her bony chest.

“You want to come say hi? I’m happy to be the middle man.” She bites her lower lip, eyes pleading as though she gives a shit. The true reason she wants a reconciliation at this point is because she thinks I might finally give Errol a seat at the Schoenbach Corporation table. A seat at the table equals a fancy title with a fat paycheck that would actually support their cushy lifestyle so they can finally stop slapping lavish dinners and ‘gram-worthy vacations on maxed-out credit cards and falling behind on their second mortgage every few months.

My father would have left half of his company to my brother had Errol not refused his opportunity at Harvard School of Business—my father’s singular stipulation.

But Errol refused, opting to attend some overpriced art school so he could live his best hipster life.

“I’ll make my way over in a few.” I survey the room, which has cleared out in the last several minutes, and talk myself into getting this over with.

Beth saunters back to her husband, who looks like he walked off the cover of GQ with his navy Givenchy suit and slicked-back man-bun. Slipping her arm into his, she rises on her toes to whisper something into his ear. He responds and then kisses her.

Our mother is oblivious to it all, greeting another friend of hers before dabbing her eyes for the millionth time.

I decide to head across the room, but not before checking my work email first.

Claudia in HR was supposed to send me some written complaint someone in payroll filed against one of our VPs, and I need to know what kind of fire I’ll be putting out Monday morning or if it’s anything that’ll require a weekend call to our lead corporate attorney.

My screen blinks and my inbox refreshes, filling the glass rectangle with dozens upon dozens of unread messages—none from Claudia.

Some days I contemplate firing each and every sloth on my father’s original team and replacing them with sharks who aren’t afraid to do their damn jobs.

Days like this, I’m far too tempted.

Thumbing through and deleting messages, I stop when I get to one with the subject line: CONDOLENCES from a sender by the name of AnonStranger.

Positive it’s a scam but too intrigued to ignore it, I tap my screen and pull up the message.

A minute later, I’ve read this person’s email not once, not twice, but three times, my blood simmering hotter each time.

Without giving it a second thought, I compile my unfiltered response and hit send.

The fucking nerve of people.

Nine

Astaire

* * *

He replied.

I blink twice, rub my eyes, and refresh the page.

The unread email remains. I’m not imagining it.

My morning was filled with laundry, a brisk walk to the library to return a couple of books, a visit to the Elmhurst Theatre to check the volunteer schedule, and then brief intermission from it all to watch All About Eve—anything I could do to peel my fixation away from Bennett Schoenbach and his curious situation.

But shortly after dinner, I caved and allowed myself to check my email … just in case.

I click on his response, noting the timestamp of 8:41 AM.

He had to have been at the memorial when he wrote this …

* * *

TO: AnonStranger@Rockmail

FROM: Bennett.Schoenbach@SchoenbachCorp

SUBJECT: RE: Condolences

Anonymous Stranger,

Your sympathies, condolences, and commiserations aren’t needed nor are they wanted. You don’t know my situation. You couldn’t possibly understand my feelings regarding this loss nor should you need to—because they’re none of your business.

The fact that you felt compelled to express your feelings anonymously, from the other side of a computer screen in God-knows-where,