From Ashes

I had too much going through my mind still: my life with Mom and Jeff, the fierce look in Gage’s eye when he turned around to swing again, and most of all the way he looked like he was dying inside every time he looked at me after he’d hit me. Then I’d left him with a note that could have meant any number of things, and I’m sure that had only made it worse. I knew I couldn’t have our first conversation over the phone; it needed to be in person. I just wasn’t ready for that yet. If I was honest with myself, I was terrified that what had happened last Friday night would change how we were permanently. I didn’t want him to treat me any differently, and I was afraid he’d treat me like I was breakable now.

“Miss Jameson? You can go back now.”

Glancing up at the receptionist of my mom’s attorney, I gave her a small smile and walked down the hall to the open door.

A lanky older gentleman stood up and grasped my hand from across his large desk. “Miss Jameson, thank you so much for coming in. I’m sorry that we’re meeting under these circumstances though.”

I simply nodded and offered him the same smile I’d just given his pixie of a receptionist.

“Well, this will be fairly quick, since you’re the only living person mentioned in your mother’s will.”

That surprised me, but I didn’t let it show. I figured she’d leave me out of it and give everything to Jeff, or hell, even her liquor. She was a bitch like that; it wouldn’t have shocked me.

“Though he is not here, we will begin with the only other person mentioned: ‘To Mr. Jeff Kross, I leave my car, home, and everything inside them. To Miss Cassidy Jameson, I leave the money in the following accounts.’ ” Mr. Buckner produced a few pieces of paper stating the bank accounts, not that they meant anything; they were just routing and account numbers. “And she also left this letter for you. Your mother came in about six months ago, Miss Jameson, to change her will and leave that letter. I was surprised, seeing as she hadn’t changed her will even after your father passed, but I don’t think she was expecting you to have to be sitting on the other side of my desk so soon. Your mother and father were good people, Miss Jameson; I’m very sorry for the losses you’ve had over the years.”

I took the lumpy envelope from him. “Me too,” I whispered, unable to force anything louder. I was still in shock that Mom had waited that long to change her will, and then died so suddenly after.

“If you’ll give me just a few minutes, we’ll get everything squared away here so you won’t have to go in to the bank to change everything over, and then we’ll be done. I’ve already called and they’re expecting my call again.”

“Thank you, Mr. Buckner.”

After another twenty minutes and both of us speaking with a manager at the bank, he handed me a few pieces of paper that were faxed over from the bank, giving me the number of the new savings account I’d had everything put into and pages about how best to handle money. I folded them all up and put them in my purse along with the letter, shook Mr. Buckner’s hand, and went to Tyler’s mom’s car, which she was letting me borrow. I drove until I found my favorite coffee shop and pulled into the parking lot. Without shutting off the car, I reached into my purse, opened the folded-up papers, and finally looked at the amount that had been deposited into the savings account. My mouth dropped open and a loud gasp filled the car. What. The. Hell?

I’d been fully expecting my mom to not have me in the will at all. When Mr. Buckner said I was getting her money, I thought it was a joke and she wouldn’t actually have any. No way did I expect her to have this much, or to leave it to me! Mouth still wide open, I grabbed the letter and broke the seal, and my breath caught at what I saw. My father’s ring, the one I’d clung to when he died and my mom had taken from me. I pulled it out of the envelope like it might break and just stared at it as memories of my dad came rushing back and tears instantly blurred my vision. I took deep breaths, slid the ring onto my thumb, and grabbed the letter. Unfolding it carefully, I took one last deep breath and looked down.

My dear Cassidy Ann—

Where do I even begin? There aren’t words to begin to describe how sorry I am for ruining your life. Nor are there words to tell you how much I hate myself for what I’ve done to you, as well as let Jeff do to you. You are so precious, and I don’t know how I ever let myself get so lost that I could forget that. Your father was my world. When he died, I didn’t know how to go on, so I didn’t. I was so weak, and neglected you . . . you were only a child! What’s worse is I can’t even remember you during that time, which means I can’t remember what you had to do to keep yourself alive during those times. I was being selfish and focusing on my hurt, trying to find any way to make it go away. My friends helped keep me intoxicated since they didn’t know I was already in that state at home, so I paid attention to them . . . but you? Where was I when you needed me? I don’t even know where you were. What kind of mother doesn’t know where her little girl is when she needs her the most? All I do remember is looking at you at the funeral and thinking about all the time your father spent with you; he was such an amazing dad, and I just knew I would never be able to look at you again without seeing him. And he was gone. So I did the only logical thing that came to mind at the time: I stopped seeing you.

When Jeff came into the picture, I was so far gone, I just needed someone there with me; I didn’t care who it was. Guess it helped that he was rich, since we both had an expensive habit, but he hated kids. Told me the day I met him, and I should have stopped seeing him at that, but what did I do? I married him two weeks later. And then I just . . . became a monster. I know you already know he’d reward me when I would hit or kick you, and thinking about that now makes me sick to my stomach, but at the time for some alcohol-induced reason, getting rewarded for beating you sounded like the most amazing gift. Of course you already know all that, but I had to write it, had to put it out there. And now that it is, I just want to die for almost killing you hundreds of times and beating you thousands more. Gosh, sweetheart, I hate myself. I’m sick with grief and guilt for what I’ve done to you!