The Inheritance (Volume Two) (4 page)

Carl shakes his head and Neal squeezes tighter, Carl’s fat fingers wrapping around the basin of the sink.

“Okay,” he chokes out. “O…kay.”

Neal releases his neck but presses his arm into Carl’s chest, keeping him pinned against the sink. His eyes are wide with fear, mirroring mine from moments before.

I know it’s stupid. I shouldn’t feel anything for Carl other than hate but I don’t want him to get hurt.

“Did you touch her?” Neal asks.

Yes
. “No,” I say.

Neal’s head whips in my direction. “He didn’t?”

“No. I mean. He grabbed me but --” Neal increases the pressure against Carl’s chest and he lets out a yelp of pain. “But I’m okay!”

“What happened after he grabbed you,” Neal says. His eyes are narrow and dark. “Tell me the truth.”

Carl’s watching me with wide, fearful eyes, his bottom lip trembling pathetically. He’s begging me, silent and white-knuckled, to lie for him. To spare him whatever might come next.

“He threw me into the stall,” I say. “He grabbed me and threw me in there.”

Neal drops his arm. Carl slinks forward, his upper body uncontrolled, head falling first, then his shoulders, then his back until he’s gripping his knees and desperately gasping for air. A panic attack.

Neal pushes my hair behind my ear and I lean into his touch. “Are you alright?”

No
. “I’m fine.”

The corners of Neal’s mouth tug sadly. He doesn’t believe me but he isn’t going to push it. “Good. Now I need you to do me a favor.”

“Alright.”

“Go tell Chris to meet me in here.”

My gaze flickers to Carl, his round stomach sucking in, then sticking out, touching the tops of his knees.

“Why?” I ask.

Neal’s jaw tightens. “Caitlin, just do it.”

On my way to the hall I imagine all the bathroom scenes in mob movies. The gritty green and yellow tile a backdrop for splashes of bright red blood. The toilets are always ruined with black and brown streaks, doors hanging on their last hinge, violent words scribbled in the stalls in small print.
I fisted Jess here
, and,
someone please cum on my face
.

The women’s bathroom is nothing like that. It’s clean and warm and has furniture and soap that dispenses out of silver bottles.

Neal’s going to ruin it with Carl’s blood. My stomach twists with guilt. That’s what I’m concerned about. The state of the bathroom over Carl’s inevitable broken bones.

Chris doesn’t need to be told much. “Neal needs you in the women’s bathroom,” is all he hears before he’s up on his feet and across the room.

“What’s going on?” Ashleigh says, watching him go.

I shake my head and take my seat.

The room’s as loud as when I left it. The conversation thick and moving at a rapid pace, words spit over my head, laughter zipping beneath my seat. My glass of champagne has been picked up and disposed of. There’s nothing in front of me but an empty dessert plate, waiting to be filled with cake and a small glass of sorbet.

Ashleigh fills the empty seat beside me. “Caitlin,” she says, her hand on my shoulder. “What’s going on?”

How do I explain what’s happened? I was almost…What? Attacked isn’t the right word and I don’t want to think about the
other
one; but it almost happened didn’t it? If Neal wouldn’t have walked in, I would’ve…

“Caitlin,” Ashleigh says a little louder. “You’re shaking.”

My shoulders, arms and hands are trembling.

“I need a drink,” I tell her. “I need something. Anything.”

A glass of champagne appears overhead. Gilda.

“Drink all of it,” she says, taking her seat next to me.

I down it, uncaring who sees me. Gilda doesn’t seem to care either. She’s watching me with a tight mouth, wrinkles deep in the corners, her eyes turned down in worry.

“I just got back from the women’s bathroom,” she says. Over my shoulder she says to Ashleigh, “I wouldn’t go in there if I were you.”

Ashleigh looks at me. My hands rest on my thighs, still uncontrolled and shaking. Gilda grabs one, her fingers wrapping warmly around mine.

“Oh honey,” she says, shaking her head. “This is only just the beginning.”

I was never allowed in my father’s bedroom. It stood on the opposite side of the condo like a tomb, the door always closed except in the mornings when Gina was making breakfast. My father liked the smell of butter coating the pan and bacon sizzling on the griddle. He wanted to fill their room with the sugary scent of maple syrup and almond milk.

“That’s why we keep the door open,” Gina said, tapping greasy tongs against the edge of the stove.

I used to lay in my bed, hands folded atop my stomach and tried to imagine all that could be in my father’s room. Suzanne’s parents had a four poster bed with a canopy and a white lace comforter but I couldn’t see my father sleeping on something so feminine. His bed would be wide instead of tall, with a dark brown wooden frame and dark blue sheets. This was the only thing I could agree on. One day I imagined his closet filled with nothing but Gina’s clothes, the next the space was equally shared. On Monday I thought he might be the type of man who lined his shoes on the wall opposite his bed, the next they were piled neatly beneath it.

My father and Gina went out for dinner one night and my curiosity got the best of me.

My father’s room was nothing like I’d imagined. The walls were a dark grey and the bed was full of white sheets and pillows. There was no bed frame but a light brown platform with no space beneath it for shoes. The closet spanned an entire wall – wide instead of long – with his suits hanging in black bags, all of Gina’s clothes stuffed messily to the left. Her gaudy dresses, her high heels, her mountain of designer jeans. My father had a second patio and an en suite – larger than mine, with two sinks and a Jacuzzi – but it was all very dull.

I wanted to stick my head out the patio door, feel the wind scratching against my skin, when my foot caught on one of my father’s shirts. The white button-down pooled around my bare foot and I shook it off. A flash of red caught my eye.

On both sleeves a layer of red was spread around the cuffs. Gina was always staining the collar of my father’s shirts with her mouth,
Jungle Red
and
Rogue Pur Couture,
a staple for both of their outfits. This red was too thick and didn’t carry the perfumed smell of lipstick. It smelled spoiled and flaked beneath my fingers like cheap paint or - my stomach curled - blood.

I dropped the shirt and squealed when it hit my feet.

I rushed out of the room, slamming the door shut behind me, as if whoever the blood belonged to would spring up from the ground. After a moment of panic I did what every girl would do and called my best friend.

Suzanne was unamused. “This doesn’t surprise me,” she said. “My daddy says your daddy makes more money than him but your daddy’s money is covered in blood.”

I was shaking. “What does that mean?”

I could almost see Suzanne rolling her eyes. “
You know
.”

No, I didn’t.

I wouldn’t know until years later, when Gina was gone and Darlene had taken her place, and the papers tried to pin several murders on my father.

______

Neal and Chris don’t make it back in time for dessert. Ashleigh steals Neal’s seat and we eat in silence, sorbet bitter on my tongue as I try not to think about Carl. A strawberry falls from Ashleigh’s fork and stains the tablecloth bright red. Carl’s nose flashes in my mind, broken and bleeding, his lips parted in pain as he slides down the bathroom wall, Neal hovering over him with a bruised and closed fist. I put down my fork and take another drink.

The party ends without them. The band plays us out the room, the group of us slowly filtering into the hall. They’re all drunk and laughing, arms thrown around shoulders and waists, heads buried in necks and armpits.

A few women tug on their husband’s arms and say, “I have to use the bathroom. Give me a minute.”

Their husbands grab their hand. “Can’t, bathroom’s broken or something. Come on, I know you can hold it.”

Outside the warm summer air envelops Ashleigh and I, the pair of us standing on the left of the double French doors, watching the crowd disperse amongst the lawn. A few reporters and their cameramen remain, snapping the occasional photo, shouting a few questions, but they go ignored. They’re dealing with a sea of pros, effortlessly looking over their heads, searching for their driver in the line of stalled cars.

“Should we call a cab?” Ashleigh asks.

“No,” I say. “We have to wait for Neal.”

It’s Ashleigh who spots Chris and Neal, rounding the corner from behind the building, a cigarette hanging from Chris’s mouth. She waves and they casually stroll up the lawn, Chris’s hand blocking the bright flash of a camera.

“Where have the two of you been?” Ashleigh asks.

My gaze flickers to Neal, his hands stuffed in his pocket. I can’t see his cuffs, but I wouldn’t know if they were covered in blood. His shirt’s as black as his suit.

“We had to take care of some things,” Chris says, a smattering of dirt on his cheek.

Ashleigh licks her thumb and wipes it off. A strangely maternal instinct that looks good on her. The corner of Chris’s mouth pulls into a smirk.

Neal offers me his arm. “Should we go?”

Aware of the cameras that surround us, I throw my arm inside of his. “Do you have the key?” I ask, the four of us heading towards the line of cars. Neal nods. “Can I have it?”

“Now?”

“Yes,” I say.

“I was thinking I could give it to you at my place. Chris had the wonderful idea of after-party drinks.”

“No. I don’t think that’s a very good idea.”

Neal stops. “I thought you said you were alright.”

“Where’s Carl?” I ask, glancing around. Neal straightens his shoulders, tightens his lips. Carefully, I remove my arm from his. I don’t want to cause a scene that can be captured in a photograph. “Please give me my key.”

Neal shoves his hand back in his pockets. “We need to have a talk.”

“Give me the fucking key,” I hiss.

A humorless laugh passes through his mouth before he digs the key from his pocket. I snatch it from him, expecting some sort of game of cat and mouse I’m not up to playing. Not tonight.

A yellow cab swings in front of the building and I grab Ashleigh’s hand. I drag her away from Chris, ignoring her protests in favor of pulling us towards the car. A man opens the back door and moves to the side for his wife, but I step in front of them.

“I’m sorry. We really need to get going,” I say, pushing Ashleigh in first before following behind.

On the drive to my father’s condo (It’s always going to be his, isn’t it? No matter what the mortgage says) I can feel the questions brewing inside of Ashleigh. She turns to me, then glances out the window, then back to me with her mouth hanging open. She doesn’t know what to say aside from: “What the hell is going on?” and she’s said that at least fifteen times already.

The cab pulls up to the condo and we file out. It’s eleven. Four streets over the bars are filled with twenty-somethings like us, steadily getting drunk off their asses, dancing to bad pop music with a partner they won’t remember in the morning. On my father’s street, all is quiet. A sector of the city sequestered away by the rich and their families, living in high-rise apartments, raising their children to be city brats like I was once.

We reach the revolving door and I hand Ashleigh the key. “I’ll be up in a minute.”

Her eyes gloss over. She wants to say something
.
Come on, spit it out.

“Okay,” she says, spinning on her heels.

It’ll be different, entering my father’s condo as an owner, rather than an unwelcome guest. I’m not ready to face that just yet.

I’m well aware of my status as a single woman, more than I was when I was sixteen and naïve, as I roam around the quiet block, unafraid of the black alleyways but ever cautious of the sound of footsteps ringing in the night. I would never dress like this and wander the streets of Baltimore alone but there’s something about Chicago that makes me feel invincible. I can flash the weight of my bracelet, tuck my hair behind my ears and reveal my diamond earrings, pinch my debit card in two fingers and be absolutely fine. I’m untouchable. Lucky. Tonight has proven that.

I don’t want to think about Neal or Carl but the image of the two of them, packed in a single stall, Carl’s knees pushed to his chest as Neal towers over him, buries itself beneath my skin. I can feel Carl’s bottom lip splitting open, a trail of blood skating down his chin, staining his faded white button-down. All because of me.

I know the drill. I took self-defense classes in college and sat in on feminist meetings where the moderator chanted
it’s not your fault, it’s never your fault
, over and over like a mantra. I believed her –
believe her
– but the weight of my guilt won’t let up.

What if…
      

What if Nate and Chris killed him?

My chest tightens and I draw my bottom lip between my teeth.

A black car pulls in front of the building. I know it’s them before the backdoor opens and Neal and Chris step out. They spot me immediately, standing in the middle of the sidewalk, my arms wrapped around myself. Neal shuts the door and the car drives off, down the road and around the corner, taking the disruptive sound of the engine with him.

Chris casts a glance up the street and down. “Where’s Ashleigh?”

“I don’t know,” I say.

Neal smirks. “She’s upstairs, isn’t she?”

Chris doesn’t need my permission to enter the building. Like Neal, he walks with an air of authority, like he belongs everywhere. With one glance, the man at the front desk will assume Chris lives in the building and he’ll leave him to travel up to my father’s condo without warning.

“You shouldn’t be out here by yourself,” Neal says.

My arms tighten around me. “That’s true.”

He’s staring at me, mouth and eyes soft at the corners, his arms hanging cautiously at his sides. “Did I do something wrong?”