Page 75 of Sinful Promises
“Good. But I have another request.”
His eyes darkened.
“Mother won’t be coming back. She’s dying.” I didn’t pause for that to sink in. “So, I’d like someone to throw out all her stuff, or donate it to charity. Do you have anyone who does that sort of thing?”
His jaw dropped and he blinked at me like I had the TV remote up my nose.
Ma joined his side. “Did I hear you say Patricia . . . she’s . . .”
“Yes. Mother’s cancer is terminal.”
When tears welled in Ma’s eyes, my chest squeezed.
Shit! I should’ve been more considerate.
Mother would have worked her charms on these two and they probably thought she was the sweetest thang ever.
“I’m so sorry.” Ma reached over to pat the back of my hand.
I wanted to say that she didn’t need to be sorry, that Mother meant nothing to me anymore. But I bit it all back. Ma was upset and I felt bad for instigating that.
I cleared my throat. “So, do you know of anyone who can dispose of Mother’s things?”
“No, sorry.” A frown wobbled across her forehead. “It’s usually a loved one who makes those arrangements.”
Damn it. I’d already been through Mother’s things once. I did not want to do it again.
They looked at each other, clearly a bit skeptical about me and my request. Wanting to placate them and regain some of their trust, I said, “Is that your pickup parked outside?”
Pa nodded, but seemed hesitant to do so.
“Okay. How about this? I’ll give you one thousand dollars. That will cover what Mother owes plus another week’s site fee. For another thousand dollars, I will load up the back of your truck and ask that you drive it to the dump with me. I’ll unload it at the dump, so you won’t have to do anything other than drive. How does that sound?”
Again, they blinked at each other, probably wondering how someone could be so callous with their dying mother’s only assets. I didn’t care.
Assuming we’d reached a deal, I offered my hand and Pa shook it.
“Shall I come back tomorrow with the cash?”
Pa clutched my palm to his. “Sounds like a deal to me.”
I strode from the office, mentally ticking off yet another item on the list.
Back at the caravan, I confirmed for a second time with Detective Flanagan that they didn’t need to go through mother’s things. He didn’t.
So, I found a Nikko pen and wrote in big letters on a sheet of paper: Everything inside FREE. I pinned the door to the caravan open, taped up the notice, and then added HELP YOURSELF to the note. I tossed the pen back inside, and as I paced toward the front entrance, I called a taxi.
I directed the taxi driver to a funeral home that I’d researched through google while eating my apple and cinnamon muffin this morning.
White Lady Funerals was a sterile building that was as clinical as it was quiet. The absence of noise was creepy. They certainly didn’t need any sort of door chime to announce my arrival. My sneakers squeaking on the polished white tiles made enough noise to wake the dead.
A woman popped up from the floor as I reached the counter. What she’d been doing down there was beyond me. Maybe a spot of yoga, or searching for an earring or something. She didn’t offer a reason, and I didn’t ask for one.
The young woman tucked her hair behind her pearl-studded ear and planted a smile on her face that looked practiced. “Hello. How may I help you?”
“I’d like to arrange a funeral for my mother.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry for your loss.”