Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 92702 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92702 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
“That wasn’t his way. It’s more likely he thought he was going to live forever.”
“I can imagine that, too,” she decides, and we exchange a smile before diving back in.
It isn’t another few minutes before she gasps. “Wait a second. You said D.S.?”
My head snaps up, and I nod. “Yes. Why?”
“What if it stood for Doctor something?” she asks, holding up a bill. “Like Dr. Santoro?”
“Let me see that.” I all but rip the page from her hand and scan the print. It’s a bill for a treatment, though the nature of the treatment isn’t specified.
“It would make sense,” she muses as I read. “If he was sick like you-know-who said.”
“Frankie. You don’t have to tiptoe around his name.”
“I wanted to be sure, is all.”
“I appreciate that.” I can’t tear my eyes away from what’s before me. Is this it? Is this what he was hiding?
“Let’s start looking at more recent files,” she suggests. “Pare this down some. If he was this meticulous with his records, he would’ve saved every bill and correspondence.”
“Good thinking.” We get to work identifying files from the past few years, which greatly reduces the number of folders to look through.
“I thought there was like universal healthcare in Europe,” she muses as we pull files.
“To a point. Some services aren’t covered.”
“What if this guy was a specialist of some sort?” Yes, that would explain why Grandfather would be billed for services. I don’t like the implications, but in the end, the result is the same. The man is dead.
Within twenty minutes, we have a stack of folders between us. Now it’s almost like a game, finding the doctor’s letterhead and pulling the pages free once we do. My heart sinks a little each time we find the name, however. I can’t help it.
Was my grandfather dying all that time?
By midmorning, I’m left holding a stack of bills. “He visited the doctor twice a month by the end,” I murmur, staring at the dates once we’ve organized everything chronologically.
“That’s not something someone does when they’re well.” She touches my shoulder, allowing her hand to linger. “I’m sorry.”
“For what? You didn’t do anything.” I regret it as soon as it’s out of my mouth. What a shitty thing to say. Yet she doesn’t back down, only tightening her hold on me a bit.
“I know it isn’t easy, but I’m sure he had a good reason for not telling you.”
“That doesn’t matter. I don’t care what his reasons were.” My fist clenches and crumples the page I’m holding. “He should’ve told me. Why did he keep it a secret?”
“Was it a secret, though? Really?”
Her gentle question cuts me to the core because she’s right. I heard the man’s coughs. I even noticed once or twice how much thinner he seemed toward the end. Why did I say nothing? Because I knew he would lash out if I did. “If I so much as hinted at him looking poorly or sounding bad, he would’ve had my balls in a vise.”
“I have no doubt about that,” she murmurs. “Men like him don’t want to be seen as weak, even by their own family. Especially not, I think.”
“Why do you think that?”
I look up from the papers to find her frowning, thoughtful. “He’d want you to believe he had everything under control. When you live your whole life giving off this strong, powerful aura, who does it make you when you aren’t strong or powerful anymore? Who are you? That’s a big, scary question for anybody to wrap their head around. He might not have wanted to admit it even to himself that he was sick.”
“I should’ve said something.”
“Hey.” She sits beside me in the middle of so much paper, so many mementos from a life now over. “Don’t do that to yourself. You know he would’ve told you to fuck off or something like that.”
“Yes, something like that,” I admit. “But I could’ve tried.”
“You can’t blame yourself. He had his reasons for keeping it from you—and in the end, isn’t that his right? It was his life. He had the choice of whether he wanted anyone to know.”
“I would’ve appreciated a heads-up, at least. He knew what his death would mean to me.” I drop the rest of what I’m holding in favor of lowering my head into my hands and closing my eyes. It’s all so complicated. He lied to me. Alicia lied. Where’s the truth? Is there such a thing? How do I know who to trust?
She ponders this for a silent moment while rubbing my back in slow circles. I don’t have it in me to make her stop. I don’t want her to, either. “He believed you could face whatever came next.”
“That’s generous of you, but you have no way of knowing that.”
“Don’t I?” She nudges me until I look at her. The softness and warmth in her smile take my breath away. “Let’s say Frankie was telling the truth, and the assassination was set up by your grandfather. Do you think he would’ve gone through with it if he didn’t think you could handle the family once he was gone? I can’t believe that. He trusted you. He knew you would step up and take control. And you have. Look at how you’ve risen to the occasion.”