I press my forehead against the window, letting the cool glass ground me. I just need toget through the next few minutes. “Make a right,” I say, my voice hollow.
Damian doesn’t respond, just flicks on the turn signal, and guides the car down the street.
And then I see it. Paradise Trailer Park.
If there’s a worse place in Vegas, I’ve never seen it. The entrance is barely marked, just a rusted sign leaning to one side, half the letters missing. The road leading in is cracked, lined with potholes big enough to swallow a tire. The trailers themselves are in every stage of collapse: roofs sagging, windows boarded up or shattered, doors hanging off hinges. Some are burned out husks, blackened from old fires, never cleared away.
I open the car window, needing air, needingsomethingto keep me from feeling trapped. Trash is everywhere, piled up against fences, bags ripped open, spilling onto the dirt. The stench of hot asphalt, piss, and rotting food clings to the air, thick enough to coat my throat. People linger outside, moving with that too-sharp, too-fast energy. Hollowed-out faces, sunken eyes. Some of them barely standing. One man near the entrance jerks violently, his arms flailing, his mouth moving fast, but there are no words. Tweaking.
My stomach plummets. This is where my father lives.
I knew it was bad, but I didn’t think it wasthis. A slow, crawling sickness spreads through me, wrapping around my ribs, squeezing until I feel like I can’t breathe. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want Damian to see this. I shouldn’t care what he thinks. But I do. And I’m so embarrassed. So ashamed. I swallow hard, my fingers curling into my palms. “This is it,” I say, voice flat, empty. It’s all I can manage.
I remember Big Dom lived in the very last row of trailers. I point toward the back, my hand unsteady.
Damian doesn’t move right away. When I glance at him, I catch something I don’t expect—hesitation. His skin looks a little paler than usual, his expression drawn tight. He meets my eyes, holding them for a second longer than he should. “You really think five hundred grand is still going to be here?”
I don’t want to answer.
I don’t want to face what happens if it’s not here. The thought alone makes my pulse pound in my temples, so strong I feel lightheaded, dizzy.
Damian drives down the last row, the SUV rolling over uneven pavement, the tires crunching over loose gravel. My heart pounds harder with every inch we drive.
“There,” I say, my voice tight. “Park near the one with the small awning. The one that’s decorated like a tiki bar.”
That’s Dom’s place. Or at least, it was. I have no idea if Dom’s still alive. Or why my father would be staying here.
Damian pulls up beside it, shifting the SUV into park. Neither of us moves right away.
The trailer sits there, dull and lifeless, its once-bright decorations faded from the sun. A string of broken tiki lights dangles from the awning, swaying slightly in the dry breeze. The place looks abandoned.
I swallow hard and push open the door. The heat outside slams into me, dry and heavy, no sign of the storm. My knees tingle as I step forward, closing the distance to the front door.
I try the handle.
It turns easily. That feels wrong. I glance at Damian, but he doesn’t say anything, just watches me, waiting.
I push the door open and step inside. He follows.
The air inside the trailer isstale, thick with the scent of old cigarettes. The blinds are half open, casting strips of weak afternoon light across the floor, highlighting the dust motes floating in the air.
The kitchen is small, barely more than a counter and a sink, but the mess is impossible to ignore. Dishes are piled high, some tipped over, streaked with dried sauce and something that might have been eggs at one point. Flies hover around them, the faint buzzinggrating against my ears. The table is covered in old newspapers, some crumpled, some stained with coffee rings. An empty beer can sits beside them, forgotten.
A recliner dominates the small living space, its fabric worn and sagging, an ashtray balanced on the armrest. There’s something about this place that feels familiar in the worst way. If I had to put it into words, it looks exactly like my childhood felt.
I walk straight to the small oven, my pulse pounding in my ears, my stomach twisting so hard it’s impossible to breathe right. I grip the handle and pull it open.
There it is.
The black metal box, just where my father always kept his wins.
A shaky breath leaves me, but the tightness in my chest doesn’t ease. My hands tremble as I lift it, the cool metal pressing against my fingers, solid, real. I set it on the counter, staring down at the combination lock, my vision blurring at the edges.
Four numbers. The same ones he always used. I don’t even hesitate. My fingers move on their own, sliding the numbers into place.
0-2-2-9.
His lucky numbers.
