Page 84 of Devoured By Peace

He turned his back to her and said, “Britney’s broken. She was your father’s favorite. A great girl.” He was clearly trying to get at Miranda.

“Hm,” I responded just as I caught sight of Tamara, who was inappropriately dressed in a short, tight skirt.

“She’s out for everything, that one. Court case, here we come,” Bevan sang.

“Sorry to disappoint, but there won’t be a court case. She’ll get what she wants.”

His brow creased. “Clarke wouldn’t have agreed to that. He hated her guts.”

“He married her.” I pushed past him, clutching Miranda’s hand, and we walked into the church.

“I don’t like that man,” she whispered.

“Makes two of us.”

I’d been asked to present a eulogy but declined. Despite using my dislike for public speaking as an excuse, I actually had nothing good to say about my father.

During the service, Britney spoke, dressed modestly in black but teetering in her spindly heels, her blond hair swept up into a bun.

Tears were in her eyes, and it wasn’t an act. Britney had loved my father. Despite my disgust about their relationship, something about Britney’s unwavering devotion to my dad moved me. Perhaps I felt a sense of relief, within that innate familial tie that bound one to a parent, that someone had genuinely loved him.

She rattled off a list of his benevolent causes. All were tax write-offs, of course.

After some hymns and the priest’s long sermon, we made our way out.

Hank, my father’s lawyer, had arranged a gathering at his palatial home in Beverly Hills, which suited me. Everyone knew my father’s marriage to Tamara was a sham. It would have been too tasteless, even for my father’s morally challenged cohort, to have ended up at the estate with Tamara hosting.

I caught Tamara’s eye as we were leaving, and she swayed over, ignoring Miranda. “We have to talk. Tomorrow.”

I didn’t say a word, knowing deep down that drama was about to unfold.