Tattooed Troublemaker - Elise Faber Page 0,36

I sighed.

I’d thought that the only reason she might have made me heir was because she was dying, and the end was imminent. As far as I knew, we were still each other’s only living biological relative.

But—and this was supremely stupid of me—because I’d also hoped that I wasn’t right.

I’d been idiotically holding on to this little slice of hope that somehow it had all been a horrible mistake that she felt guilty about and this letter would be begging me to absolve her of her sins, to forgive her. Or maybe it would be her prayer that the two of us might be able to be a real family after all.

And that was not to be.

I sighed.

Of course, it wasn’t.

First, I didn’t think I could ever forgive her for what she’d done.

Second, I didn’t think I could ever forgive her for waiting seventeen years before reaching out—and no, I also didn’t consider her providing me with the legal paperwork for the trust or for this inheritance as reaching out. For all I knew, she hadn’t been involved.

That was all the lawyers.

Nothing to do with her or me.

With another sigh, I carefully shut those doors in my heart and my mind and then set the paper aside to focus on the photographs.

My mother at various ages. My throat went tight as I carefully spread them out on the table in front of me, oddly touched. I didn’t have this. I’d been allowed to pack up one suitcase when I’d gone into care, and an eleven-year-old didn’t think to bring a lot of pictures. I’d been coaxed by the social worker into bringing clothes and toiletries alongside the stuffed animals I’d crammed into my bag. The kind woman had also put in a family photo, something I’d been incredibly grateful for over the years.

But I didn’t know where the rest of the apartment’s contents had gone.

Sold?

Left behind and trashed?

Put into storage somewhere?

I’d given up on the last when the trust paperwork had come. The assets listed weren’t physical, just the monetary lump sum I’d used to get set up where I was now.

So, sold or trashed.

But now I had these.

Swallowing hard, I studied each of the pictures carefully. They were a study in age—my mother as a baby; as a toddler in braided pigtails posing next to a large wooden block with the letter A painted on it; in a navy sweater and plaid skirt, her hair perfectly straight, teeth covered in braces; in a stunning black prom dress; and then in the final one, holding a bouquet of orchids while wearing a poufy wedding dress that was decidedly nineties, albeit without any extraneous headbands or hair-crimping.

I glanced at my arm, to the formerly unmarked skin on my left forearm.

Orchids.

Well, the outline of them anyway.

My breath caught, the tears I’d been holding back slipped free.

Precious.

These were absolutely precious.

I studied the photos through my tears, memorizing every detail I could manage through the watery lens, trying to commit them to memory, wanting to be able to recall them whenever I missed my mother.

Then I carefully tucked them back into the smaller envelope, folded the paper back into thirds, put it into the bigger one, and wiped my eyes.

Standing, I grabbed both and carefully brought them to my file cabinet, tucking them safely away before pulling out a card I’d only used once, at twenty-five. I brought it back to the table, called the number on the front, and scheduled an appointment into my already over-filled calendar.

Only this one was with my lawyer.

So, I’d make sure not to be late.

Fourteen

Garret

“I don’t know why you keep insisting on doing this, Garret.”

I shouldn’t have answered the phone.

I knew that approximately a heartbeat after I’d swiped my finger across the screen, right before I’d put it up to my ear and heard Lorna’s voice. Sharp edges, tearing syllables, harshness in every word.

As though, I’d been the one to ruin our relationship.

“I’m hanging up now, Lorna,” I said, wiping the sleep from my eyes, knowing the fact that I’d answered the phone at all at such an ungodly hour was some old instinct in knowing the only person who’d ever called so early was my ex-fiancée. Trained to heel, wanting a relationship to work so badly that I’d been willing to accept something that only made me miserable.

“Wait!”

I sighed, finger hovering over the red dot to end the call.

“I made a mistake.”

My lids closed, knowing a year ago I might have believed the words. Now, I knew