But I could.
Chapter 2
PART 2 - THE DEAD MAN WHO WAS STILL ALIVE
1,770 words
And that tiny sound worried me more than if Dad had shouted.
My father wasn't a man who exploded easily.
When he was angry, he became quiet.
Very quiet.
Serena kept talking, completely unaware.
“Look, Clara, I'm calling because we're trying to handle this like adults. Julian already has someone coming to evaluate the truck. We've contacted the bank, and we're going through Dad's office today.”
Dad's eyebrows rose.
His office.
I almost smiled.
“And the house?” I asked.
“Obviously we're keeping it,” she said.
Julian called from the background, “Might renovate the kitchen!”
They both laughed.
Dad didn't.
His face had become eerily calm.
Serena continued, “There are probably some personal things of yours still in your old bedroom. I'll box them up. Julian can leave them by the garage.”
“How thoughtful.”
Serena missed the sarcasm.
“I knew you'd understand.”
Dad looked at me and silently mouthed, “Understand?”
I
bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.
Julian apparently grabbed the phone again.
“And Clara?”
“Yes, Julian?”
“Don't make this difficult.”
I stared through the kitchen window at the thin layer of frost covering my backyard.
“Difficult?”
“Don't start challenging the will or demanding things that aren't yours. Serena is Dad's eldest daughter. She stayed close to home. She deserves this.”
Dad slowly leaned back in his chair.
Julian continued.
“You made your choice years ago.”
Serena murmured something approvingly.
Then Julian added the sentence that finally changed Dad's expression..
Samuel Mercer was standing beside my brother-in-law at the bank.
I stared at the surveillance photograph until the edges blurred.
The image was grainy, taken from above, but there was no mistaking him.
Samuel had the same broad shoulders, the same heavy gray mustache, the same habit of leaning slightly to one side because of an old
knee injury he'd gotten falling off a roof twenty years ago.
I'd known him since I was a child.
He had dressed as Santa Claus at our elementary school Christmas fair.
He had taught Serena and me how to bait fishing hooks.
He had carried my mother's casket with my father.
And now, according to the police report in front of me, Samuel had walked into Dad's bank with Julian less than twenty-four hours before supposedly discovering my father's dead body.
My stomach turned cold.
Dad tapped the photograph.
Then he pointed toward the phone.
Serena was still waiting.
“Clara?”
I looked at Dad.
He shook his head.
Not yet.
I swallowed.
“I'm here.”
“Well?”
“Well what?”
“Are you going to make this difficult?”
I almost laughed.
The sheer confidence in her voice was astonishing.
She believed she was speaking to the grieving, excluded daughter.
She thought Dad was dead.
She thought she had the house.
The accounts.
The truck.
Everything.
And whatever she and Julian were doing, they clearly believed they had already won.
I glanced at the surveillance photo again.
“Actually,” I said, “I think you're right.”
Dad's eyebrows lifted.
Serena went silent.
Then she laughed softly.
“I knew you'd eventually be reasonable.”
“I don't want a fight.”
“Good.”
Julian said something in the background.
Serena muffled the phone.
I could hear them talking, but not clearly enough to make out the words.
Dad leaned closer to the speaker.
After a few seconds, Serena returned.
“Julian says that's probably best for everyone.”
“How generous of Julian.”
“He's trying to protect me.”
Dad rolled his eyes.
I continued.
“I just want one thing.”
Serena's tone tightened.
“What?”
“I want to see Dad.”
Silence.
The turn signal on Serena's car kept clicking.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Finally, she said, “That's not possible.”
I stared at the phone.
“Why?”
“Samuel is handling everything.”
“Everything?”
“The funeral arrangements.”
Dad's mouth became a hard line.
“What funeral arrangements?”
“Private cremation.”
I almost dropped the phone.
Across the table, Dad's expression changed completely.
He lunged for the speaker, but I grabbed his wrist.
His skin was ice cold.
“Serena,” I said slowly, “when is Dad being cremated?”
“Today.”
Dad jerked his hand away from mine.
His chair scraped violently against the floor.
“Today?”
The word came from me louder than intended.
Serena immediately became defensive.
“Don't start.”
“He died last night.”
“Yes.”
“And you're cremating him today?”
“It was what he wanted.”
“No, it wasn't.”
“You wouldn't know.”
I looked at Dad.
He was pacing now.
One hand pressed against the back of his neck.
He looked furious.
But underneath the anger was something else.
Fear.
My father, a man who had survived a heart attack, two layoffs, my mother's cancer, and forty years of raising Serena, actually looked afraid.
“Where is he?” I asked.
“Samuel has him.”
“At the funeral home?”
“Obviously.”
Samuel's funeral home had been sold seven years ago.
He no longer owned it.
Dad stopped pacing.
He pointed toward the police report and mouthed two words.
Keep talking.
“Serena, I know Samuel retired.”
“He still has connections.”
“What funeral home?”
Another pause.
“You don't need to know.”
“Why not?”
“Because you'll show up and create drama.”
Julian laughed again.
That laugh.
I suddenly hated that laugh.
Serena added, “Look, Clara, I'm trying to do you a kindness by calling you at all.”
“A kindness?”
“Yes.”
“Our father supposedly died less than twelve hours ago and you're telling me I'm not allowed to see his body.”
“Don't phrase it like that.”
“How should I phrase it?”
Dad stopped beside the table.
His eyes met mine.
Then he silently pointed at his phone.
I nodded.
He walked toward the hallway.
Serena exhaled impatiently.
“Clara, I don't have time for this.”
“Where are you going?”
“What?”
“I can hear your turn signal.”
The clicking stopped.
Another silence.
“I'm driving.”
“Where?”
“To Dad's house.”
“For what?”
“It's our house now.”
Dad's footsteps stopped in the hallway.
I heard him murmur something under his breath.
Probably nothing appropriate for breakfast conversation.
Serena continued, “Julian already met the locksmith.”
“You're changing the locks before Dad has even been buried?”
“Cremated.”
“Right.”
That somehow sounded worse.
Then Julian spoke from the passenger seat.
“You always were dramatic, Clara.”
I smiled.
“Good morning, Julian.”
“Morning.”
“What bank were you at yesterday?”
The silence was immediate.
Complete.
Even Dad froze.
Serena spoke first.
“What?”
“I asked Julian what bank he visited yesterday.”
Julian laughed.
But this time the laugh sounded different.
Shorter.
Forced.
“I go to banks all the time.”
“With Samuel Mercer?”
Nobody answered.
I could almost hear their brains working.
Dad walked quickly back into the kitchen.
He held up his phone.
On the screen was a text message.
From Samuel.
Dad's eyes locked on mine.
The message had arrived at 6:42 a.m.
It contained four words.
You should have stayed gone.
My skin prickled.
I looked toward the kitchen windows.
The backyard was empty.
The fence beyond it was white with frost.
Suddenly my house didn't feel warm anymore.
Serena's voice came through the speaker.
“Clara, what exactly are you accusing us of?”
“I didn't accuse anyone.”
“You're implying something.”
Julian interrupted.
“Hang up.”
Serena ignored him.
“How do you know Samuel was at a bank?”
Dad pointed sharply at me.
Enough.
I understood.
We had learned what we needed.
For now.
“I don't,” I said.
Then I disconnected the call.
The kitchen fell silent.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Dad stared at the phone.
I stared at the police report.
Finally, he said, “They're going to burn somebody.”
I looked up.
“What?”
“If Serena is telling the truth about a cremation today, then somebody is being cremated.”
“But not you.”
“No.”
His voice was quiet.
“That means they have a body.”
The thought settled over the kitchen like fog.
I hadn't considered that.
Someone had officially reported Dad dead.
Someone had apparently arranged a cremation.
Death certificates required documentation.
Bodies required identification.
Funeral homes didn't usually incinerate mystery corpses because a daughter and her husband asked nicely.
At least I hoped they didn't.
I rubbed my forehead.
“Start from the beginning.”
Dad sat down.
The bacon between us had gone cold.
He didn't touch it.
“Three months ago,” he began, “I transferred everything.”
“I can see that.”
“I didn't tell Serena.”
“Clearly.”
“I didn't tell anybody except my attorney.”
“Why me?”
Dad looked at me.
There was hurt in his expression.
Not because I'd asked.
Because he understood why.
“You think it was because Serena isn't trustworthy.”
“Wasn't it?”
“Partly.”
He sighed.
“But mostly because you never asked me for anything.”
I looked away.
He continued.
“After your mother died, Serena changed.”
“She was already difficult.”
“She became worse.”
That was generous.
“First, she started asking about the house. Then the land. Then the investments. She wanted to know what everything was worth.”
“And Julian?”
“Always nearby.”
Dad rubbed his jaw.
“Two years ago, I found him in my office.”
“Doing what?”
“He claimed he was looking for a phone charger.”
“In your desk?”
“That was my question.”
I leaned back.
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“You had your own life.”
“Dad.”
“I know.”
His voice softened.
“I should have.”
He reached for the metal case.
“Last year, I changed my estate plan. The lawyer suggested a trust. I went further.”
He slid another document across the table.
The Vance Family Property Trust.
I skimmed the first page.
My name appeared repeatedly.
Trustee.
Beneficiary.
Successor.
Then I saw another name.
Serena Vance Carlisle.
A single paragraph.
Dad had left her something after all.
Twenty-five thousand dollars.
But there was a condition.
She received it only if she did not challenge the trust.
If she challenged it, she received one dollar.
I stared at him.
“You knew.”
“I suspected.”
“You expected her to fight.”
“I hoped she wouldn't.”
He gave me a tired smile.
“I might also have spent forty-four years learning who my children are.”
Children.
Not daughter.
Children.
The word landed strangely after what Julian had said.
I looked down.
“Is it true?”
Dad didn't pretend not to understand.
His expression softened.
“Yes.”
I nodded once.
My throat tightened despite myself.
“You adopted me.”
“I did.”
“You never told me.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because it never mattered to me.”
I looked at him.
He leaned forward.
“Clara, listen carefully.”
His voice had changed.
Firm.
The same voice he'd used when teaching me to drive.
“You were eighteen months old when I met your mother. You hated peas, you slept with a plastic yellow duck, and you bit me the first time I tried to buckle you into a car seat.”
Despite everything, I laughed.
Dad smiled.
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