Page 18 of The Summer of Us

She cut me off. “No. You’re going to take the biscuits and get the hell out of my shop and my life, Linc.”

“Sunny, I want to talk. I need to—”

Again, she cut me off. “I said no. You had plenty of time to talk while I pined away for you. I no longer care what you need.”

“But I—”

“Get out, or I’ll have you arrested for trespassing.”

I stared at the angry, cold woman in front of me. This wasn’t Sunny. Not the Sunny I remembered. Then again, I wasn’t the same boy.

“All right, I’ll go. But I’m coming back. I’ll see you soon.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I’ve heard that before. I guess we already know that won’t be happening.”

Then she turned on her heel and walked away.

* * *

She was on my mind all day, no longer a ghost, but a living, breathing woman. Beautiful. Sad. Angry.

Here. Right here in Mission Cove. I had looked for her years ago, unable to locate her, finally deciding to let her go and move on. Concentrate on my plan and make sure my father no longer had the power to hurt people. I knocked over the pieces in his intricate game of chess, taking his queen and leaving him with no moves left.

The day I received the call that he’d had a massive heart attack in his office and died had produced one emotion: relief. I didn’t go to see him. There was no funeral. Only a simple statement in the paper and I had his ashes shipped to me.

I found great satisfaction in driving them to the local dump and tossing them into a pile of rotting garbage.

His soul was rotten, and that was where he belonged.

I shook my head, clearing my morbid thoughts. I glanced at the two boxes of possessions I was taking with me. Small mementos I had found in searching the house all day. Things my father would have overlooked since they were sentimental, and he would have had no idea they could mean something to me. Two of the boxes were items that belonged to my mother that were hidden in the basement, the cardboard covered in dust and forgotten. The other a few photos and various things I’d picked up as I walked around.

“Are you sure that is all?” my lawyer, Ned Jenkins, asked. “Some of the things in the house are incredibly valuable, Lincoln.”

“I’m sure. Send all the books to the library. They can sell the first editions and use the rest. Open the place up. Biggest garage sale in the history of Mission’s Cove. All the money goes to the town.”

“The place will be swamped.”

I lifted a shoulder. “I’ve hired the right people. It’ll be handled. Once it’s done, the house comes down.”

“And what will you do with the land?”

“I’m still thinking on it. But the symbol of this place, the power my father had over this town, needs to go.”

“I understand. I’ll finish drawing up the papers and getting the permits. I should have most of them tomorrow. Anything else you need?”

“No.”

“I’ll be in touch.”

He left, the sound of his car fading away, leaving me alone in the house I hated as a child, loathed as a teen, and now planned on destroying as an adult.

I sat at my father’s desk, looking around the room. His seat of power—now crumbled to dust.

The same as his body.

Appropriate.

I opened the drawers, all empty now, the personal effects long removed. As I gripped the drawer front, I felt the edge of something with my finger, and I opened the drawer again, curious.