Total pages in book: 173
Estimated words: 163802 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 819(@200wpm)___ 655(@250wpm)___ 546(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 163802 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 819(@200wpm)___ 655(@250wpm)___ 546(@300wpm)
“Sue, wait, who are you—? Hold up, is it Colin Finley?” Alex rolled down the window to call at my back. “Tell me this isn’t Colin Finley’s house!”
I could not tell him that, so I didn’t bother trying. I came clean as much as possible to Micah the night before, but I hadn’t had the chance to do so with Alex or Rhodes. All the same, something told me Alex would learn all during the car ride home, and Rhodes would be next that night.
I knocked on the door, psyching myself up. Did I think Mrs. Finley killed my mother? Of course not. Micah had a solid point. If Mrs. Finley was going to do any stabbing, she’d have done it ten years ago. Why wait until now, and why my mother?
Omma emptied out my trust and college fund and gave it to Colin’s family. It didn’t make up for what Sue did to him, but Omma literally paid for a crime she didn’t commit. Why track her down a decade later and kill her when the person responsible had to be the one Mrs. Finley truly hated?
The door flew open, stopping my musing in its tracks.
Omma had us when she was forty, which meant the fellow mothers in the school pickup line were about ten to twenty years younger than her. Mrs. Finley was one such younger mother—in her early fifties compared to Omma, who was bumping up against seventy. But looking at the woman standing before me, no one would’ve guessed which one was younger.
Dry hair heavily streaked with white escaped the many clips haphazardly stuck on her scalp. Deep wrinkles competed with the stress and frown lines etched in her face—both trying and winning their mission to age her twenty years. She wore a large, purple muumuu that completely swallowed her figure, and ratty house slippers that were falling apart on her feet.
She wasn’t smiling when she opened the door, but the minute our eyes met, I got the sense she’d never smile again.
“What the fuck do you want?”
A lump lodged in my throat. Okay, not off to a promising start.
“Hello, Mrs. Finley,” I rasped. “I’m not sure if you know who I am—”
“Soo Min Kim.” She spat the name. “I know exactly who you are. I repeat, what the fuck do you want?”
“To talk. We’re long overdue for a conversation, Mrs. Finley.”
“Oh?” She raised a brow that was darker than the hair on her head. “Are we?”
“We are,” I said, voice firm but polite. “You believe so too, or you wouldn’t have come to my house Friday night.”
Her face shuttered closed. Of all the things she was prepared for me to say, I don’t think she was ready for that one.
“Come in.”
Looking back at Alex, I gave him a little thumbs-up, then stepped over the threshold.
The living room was small and cluttered. The couches, coffee table, end tables, and entertainment center were all too big for the space. A space made smaller by all the random gifts and knickknacks one accumulates over a long life.
I made to sit down but Mrs. Finley didn’t stop. She passed through the entrance off the living room, so I followed her—winding up in the kitchen.
Just like the living room, the kitchen was cluttered. Dirty pots and pans covered the stove and filled the sinks. Stacks of letters covered the kitchen island, and all of the available counter space was taken up by appliances, and pills. So many pill bottles that I stopped counting at fifteen.
Mrs. Finley crossed to the kettle and flicked it on. Her back was to me as she busied herself getting cups, tea bags, sugar, and spoons. I took that chance to sit down at the island.
“Say what you came to say,” she snapped.
“Oh, right.” I sat up straight, sucking in a deep breath. “I’m actually not sure how to begin, but here goes... You may or may not know that something horrible happened last Friday night. My mother was murdered and—”
“What’s so horrible about that?”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” She turned around, slapping me with a glare that almost knocked me off the seat. “What’s so horrible about that rancid bitch getting exactly what she deserved?”
I gaped at her. “What the hell? Why would you say that? My mother wasn’t responsible for what her daughter did.”
“Yeah, and that’s exactly what she said to the judge.” She slammed the mug down, chipping the bottom. “Is that why you’ve come here? To tell me once again that since there’s no proof of parental neglect or a documented pattern of behavior that said parent failed to address, parental liability cannot be proven, and therefore your mother wasn’t at fault and had no obligation to pay.”
“What?” My mind was in knots trying to follow this conversation. “What are you talking about?”
“What else would I be talking about!” she screamed, blowing me back. “What else is there to talk about! For ten years, it’s been the same conversation, the same argument, the same fight, and a world that doesn’t listen! That doesn’t care! That doesn’t help!” Her eyes bugged out of her head. “Lord knows, I wanted to talk about something else for once—for one day! Well, I got my wish!” She burst into a hysterical, shrieking laugh that chased a chill up my spine. “Now everyone can talk about something else, because Dana Finley is finally going to shut up!”