His eyebrows lift in surprise, but not before a flash of irritation. “I wasn’t aware you were engaged.”
“You will be.”
I turn away before he can respond, a deliberate dismissal, and head for the car, but Ophelia’s no longer in there.
My eyes scan the graveyard, finding her standing with another young woman whose body is lined with tension, arms wrapped around herself. Even knowing the likely reason, I don’t relax until Ophelia hugs her, giving her a card before she walks back to me.
“Another claimant?”
“Yeah. I gave her the lawyer’s number.” Her lips curl inward as I open the door, and her voice drops lower. “I might have given her permission to spit on his grave.”
A sentiment I’m onboard with. When the girl looks our way again, I raise a hand, and she gives a tiny nod.
“Are you okay?” Ophelia asks once every straggler has gone.
Bryan’s grave lies in a crematorium on the other side of the city. His death was discovered late on the first Tuesday, when repeated calls from his work hadn’t been answered. A police wellness-check soon followed.
His file now waits at the coroner’s office for review. The average time from death to an inquiry stands at over two years for suicide, and the police rendered their verdict when they handed the case over.
His funeral was organised by the council. Only a few work colleagues bothered to attend.
Ophelia shrugs off my coat and returns it to me, tilting her head in a way that’s grown familiar over the past few months; a gesture that activates the magnification in her augmented lenses.
“I’m fine,” I protest before she reads my expression.
But I’m not.
The numbness from the funeral is fading. I shrug on my coat and pat the right-side pocket. The small box sits where it’s been for the past four weeks, waiting for the right moment.
At first, I couldn’t ask because my dad lay undiscovered. There was way too much uncertainty.
Then, during yet another visit from Gregorie, I suggested getting a locksmith in to open the locked basement door. The one ‘only he had a key to.’ Just to ‘make sure.’
Cue the horrifying discovery. It wasn’t hard faking upset when the smell rolled upstairs.
Afterwards, police, insurance, endless interviews… I grew sick of my lawyer’s face.
Three weeks to be found. Seven months before police closed their file, releasing his body for burial.
All I want is for this portion of my life to be done. I can’t dance on my father’s grave, not without something seeing me, but the small box seems like an appropriate way to cement his death and move on.
A digger is partially hidden behind a bank of trees. The grave will soon be filled in. The vultures have stopped circling.
Time to stakemyclaim on the future.
Ophelia sinks into the passenger seat, and I face her. “Remember you asked me what I want to do with my life?”
She raises her eyebrows. “And you deflected by talking about how much work it’ll take to keep your dad’s business going.”
“Mm. Well, Vincent isn’t the right candidate for a takeover, but I think there’ll be a buyer somewhere who fits the bill. If there isn’t, I’m happy to gift the entire operation to Gregorie in return for substantial dividends. I really want no part of it.”
“If you’re sure.” Her hand clutches mine. “It’s your legacy too.”
“I’m sure.” Ophelia’s fingers are icy, and I rub them between my palms. “Anyway, I know the answer. It just needs your approval.”
“And what is it?”
I release her hands, and get out of the car, walking around, opening her door. Kneeling before her.
