Free The Inheritance by Zelda Reed Page B

deep down they have a good heart.”
    The combative fourteen year old step-child in me flares up for a moment. He was an asshole , I want to shout, this doesn’t make up for shit , but I bite my tongue and nod. “You’re right,” I say. “I’m sorry for not listening to you.”
    She crosses her arms over her chest. “Where’d you go yesterday, anyway?”
    “Back to the hotel. I just needed to get out of there.”
    I expect her to say something along the lines of, yeah, I know what you mean , but Gina just nods and turns away. She slowly makes her way towards the sidewalk, as if she’s digging up something else to say, anything else, but nothing but silence stretches between us. She takes the same route as Darlene, up the street and to the right, towards the train station, to her little apartment in Logan Square.
    I should leave. I don’t know what I’m waiting for until Neal steps out on the porch, hands in his pockets as he moves beside me.
    “You have to understand --”
    “It’s fine,” I say, voice full of malice.
    “Caitlin.”
    “No, really, all of this,” I shrug. “I don’t expect anything less from the CEO of J.M. Wheeler. Never have and I never will.”
    I make a move to step forward, one step closer to the porch steps, but Neal blocks my path. “When are you going back to Baltimore?”
    I step to the side and he follows. “Please move.”
    He steps closer. “Not until you answer me.”
    My jaw tightens as I look up at him. “It doesn’t matter when I’m going back because I never want to see you again.”
    Neal’s eyes narrow. Not in malice but in intrigue. A challenge. “You don’t mean that.”
    “You don’t nearly know me well enough to make that assumption. Now please, move .”
    Neal steps out the way. I rush down the steps, the summer wind whipping through my hair. He doesn’t say a word, doesn’t yell after me, but his eyes remain on my back, watching me as I go down the street and to the right, disappearing around the corner.

Eleven
     
    I move my return flight from Sunday to Wednesday giving me two days to clean out my father’s condo. Forty-eight hours to find a realtor, a good one, who can sell it within a week, without much interference from me.
    There are no good memories floating around my father’s condo, even with the newness of it all. It would be torture, keeping it around and in the family, like a haunted mansion tucked on the outskirts of town where terrible things happened but no one likes to talk about it.
    I crawl beneath my covers and Neal pops up in my mind. I can no longer smell him, housekeeping has replaced every sheet and pillow on my bed (per my request) but I can still feel him surrounding me. His thighs heavy beneath me, his hands kneading my breasts, his teeth against my neck, his mouth against mine. I force my eyes close but there he is again, in full color, grinning at me, his blue eyes sparkling.
    He’s an asshole , I repeat, over and over until I tire myself out.
     
    ______
     
    Around eight pm, I pull myself out of bed, get dressed and head towards LaSalle, where a string of restaurants and bars surround the financial district. From the ground I can see my father’s office, all the way on the fortieth floor, the windows lit up with yellow as if he’s still there, working himself ragged, even after death.
    His favorite place to take me, when he was forced to accompany me to lunch, was a small pizza place down the street from his job. It’s cliché in the worst ways – the red and white tile floor, the fake vines running along the brick wall, the framed photos digitally aged and deliberately crooked for “authenticity” – but the pizza’s delicious and the beer is cheap.
    “Cheese and sausage flatbread, please,” I say to the bartender who hands me a tall glass of beer and takes my menu.
    Paulie’s isn’t the sort of place you come to pick people up. The restaurant’s thick with families and college students on late-night