Chapter 1
Bradley
Therainhasn’tstoppedall morning. Thick clouds hang low like mourning veils across the sky, casting everything in a gray haze. The muddy ground pulls at my shoes as I stand alone at the edge of the open grave, hands clenched at my sides, shoulders slumped under the weight of my soaked black suit and the heavier burden of finality.
There are no words left to say. No one left to say them to.
My grandmother—Nana—is gone. The only real parent I’ve ever had. Since I was ten, she’s been my home, my warmth, my world. My mother and father when I didn’t have them. Now, she’s a lifeless shell in a casket being slowly lowered into the earth.
The others who came to celebrate her life—neighbors, old church friends, a few people from the senior center where she used to knit—have already left. Life, for them, continues to move on. But for me, time stands still.
I can still remember the day she came and collected me from James’s house. His parents took me in until she could arriveafter my parents died. Fatal head-on car accident. All because they were coming to pick me up.
Nana was all I had left. She was an only child, and her parents had passed away long before. My mother was her only child, and my father was raised in foster care. There was no one else. One horrific accident left me broken and abandoned. Their death was my fault. If I hadn’t begged to go to the sleepover, they wouldn’t have been on the road. They’d still be alive.
The air around me blankets me with a cold, wet silence. Raindrops trace cool paths down my face, some indistinguishable from my tears. But I don’t flinch. I don’t try to wipe them away. I don’t care that I could catch pneumonia from standing out here in the chilling rain. Nothing matters at this moment but my grief. My loss.
The soft rustle of fabric beside me breaks the quiet, pulling me from my stroll down memory lane. A throat clears as someone steps up beside me, lifting a black umbrella over my head, protecting me from the rain.
“Wyatt, when you’re ready,” the voice is measured, kind. Warmer than the rain. “I need you to come by the office so we can discuss your grandmother’s estate.”
Frank Needleman. My grandmother's lawyer. A man who has always spoken with a calm, reliable tone. But today, there’s something else mixed in with it. Grief, maybe. Dread, perhaps. Lawyers never have anything good to tell you. Not unless they’ve just got you cleared from a murder charge.
I lift my head, turning to look at Frank, meeting eyes that quickly glance away, as if they can’t hold the weight of what’s coming.
“It’s Bradley.” I've always gone by my middle name. My father's. “I can go now,” I say hoarsely. “If you have time.” I shake my head. No, not his office. I'm drained. “Can we do this at my grandmother's home?”
Frank nods solemnly. “I’ll meet you there. I just need to run by the office real quick.”
He reaches out, taking my hand in his, shaking it. “Your grandmother will be missed. She was an amazing woman with the biggest heart. I'm so sorry for your loss.” Then he’s gone, the umbrella barely shielding him as he walks off toward his car, leaving me in the rain again.
Alone.
It's then I drop to the ground, my knees digging into the wet earth beneath them as I break down, letting out everything I've been holding in.
Even after saying my final farewells at her gravesite, I still beat Frank to my grandmother's house. Pulling into the gravel driveway, I sit in my car staring at the porch for a long moment, that endless feeling of dread tightening in my chest.
My eyes drift to the wooden swing that's been hanging there for as long as I can remember. I still remember our last conversation sitting in it early one morning, coffee in each of our hands. She was trying to convince me to go back to school, to finish what I started. She didn't want me to feel like I was coming home to care for her and was keeping me from achieving my dreams.
Now, as I gaze upon the house, it feels like it belongs to someone else. A shell of a home left behind with no heart. No soul. A container for memories of a happier time.
I haven’t stepped foot inside since she passed away a week ago, when her body was rolled out inside a black bag. I can’t bear it. Can’t face it.
Still, I know I have to go in there and face the emptiness. Killing the engine, I force myself out of the car and into the rain, gripping the keys in my hand, jaw tight, body shivering, and make my way onto the porch.
My fingers fumble with the key as I slide it into the lock, opening the door. Inside, it's quiet. Too quiet.
I hate it.
Closing the door behind me, I drop my keys into the old wicker basket by the door. My eyes catch on the glass jar still filled with butterscotch candies—her favorite. The ones she would always sneak into my hand when I was upset, or just because.
Old people candy. It's what I always called it. I can still hear her laugh, jovial and full of life when I would call them that.
A smile ghosts across my face before vanishing as quickly as it appeared.
The smell of jasmine perfume still lingers faintly in the air.
Everywhere I look, I'm reminded of her. The pain growing inside me with each memory. Another fracture weaving its way through my heart.
