I am cognizant enough to know that just showing up and demanding to officially meet my son would be an unhealthy blow to him, and the last thing I want to do is hurt him more.
I fire off a text to her, wondering if she’ll even answer.
Me: The results are in. We need to talk.
Five minutes go by before she messages back.
Tinley: I know. They sent them to me as well.
Me: What did you tell him?
Tinley: I haven’t told him anything.
Me: Why does he think I’m not in his life.
Those three little dots appear and disappear several times with long breaks in between before her next message, the one that knocks the wind from my lungs comes through.
Tinley: I told him you died.
Jesus Christ. Is this woman for real? Does she hate me so much that she’d tell such a horrific lie to our child?
Tinley: I told him you were a criminal gangbanger and died in a drug deal gone wrong.
I blink down at my phone. I want to laugh, praying that she’s joking, but deep down I know she isn’t.
Tinley: Are you?
Me: Dead? I’m very much fucking alive.
Tinley: Are you a gangbanger, a drug dealer?
I narrow my eyes at the damn phone, pissed beyond reason.
I shove my phone back in my pocket. She doesn’t deserve a damn answer to such a ridiculous question. It doesn’t matter what kind of life I’ve led since that day I hurt her, but it’s clear what she thinks of me. Alex is my son, and I’m going to be in his life whether she likes it or not.
I don’t have long to stew in my anger, and that’s a good thing because I’m seconds away from calling Wren and insisting he find me a family law attorney, demanding the best so I can win full custody of my son, when the sound of soft knuckles hit the front door.
Pissed, I pull open the door ready to spit venom at whoever has the fucking nerve to bother me right now, but the timid woman on the stoop is wearing a nametag from the realtor’s office I called yesterday, reminding me that I have an appointment with her right now.
“Mr. Torres?” she asks, her eyes darting behind me as if she needs to assess the danger of being here alone.
“Yes,” I manage with an almost calm voice as I hold my hand out to shake hers.
“Amy Degrassi, I’m from Sky Realty.”
“Nice to meet you,” I say before stepping aside. “Please come in.”
She falters in the doorway, and it’s clear she’s uncomfortable.
“There’s no need for you to be uneasy. I just got some life-altering news. It has nothing to do with you.”
Her teeth worry her bottom lip, but she must decide I’m no threat because she steps inside.
“May we leave the door open?”
“Of course,” I answer, hating that any woman would be afraid to be alone with me.
The realization makes me push down the irritation I feel over my current situation, and I plant a smile on my face.
“I haven’t had the chance to clear anything out, but I’m looking to sell as-is. A fixer-upper for a property management company or something,” I tell her as we walk deeper into the house. “I know it needs a lot of work, but full disclosure, I don’t plan to fix a single thing.”
“That will prevent many families from being able to purchase.”
“I know.”
Honestly, I’d rather just let the property sit until it was condemned but throwing away money on property taxes isn’t reasonable.
“There are three bedrooms, one bathroom. The garage is filled with trash. The carpet is utterly disgusting. As you can see,” I point to the living room walls, “There are holes everywhere.”
She cringes as she looks around the room, and I know it’s clear to her that the man who lived here was an angry bastard.
She follows me to the master bedroom, which even calling that is a joke. It’s just as small as the other two on the property.
“One bathroom is a hard sell,” she mutters as she stands in the hallway looking into the room that was designated as mine as a kid.
She didn’t want to fully walk into the master, but something catches her eyes in my old room. Muscles along my spine tense as she looks down at the closet door.
“Locks on the inside of the closet?”
I grunt in response, not needing to explain the messed-up things I had to do to stay safe before I was old enough to walk out the front door without triggering my grandfather’s need to call me in as a missing child.
I wish I could say I forgot about this room, but that would be impossible. The memories are alive and well, but I haven’t stepped foot in here since I returned, choosing rather to crash on the sofa.
“What are you expecting to get for the property?” Amy asks as she walks back toward the living room without so much as poking her head into the third bedroom.
“Enough to cover the back taxes from the last couple of years,” I explain.
I haven’t dug much around my grandfather’s shit, but the late notices and foreclosure warnings are hard to miss seeing as they have arrived daily since I returned to town.
“Are there any liens on the property?”
“Not that I know of.”
“I’ll have to dig in deeper.” She looks around the room one last time before meeting my eyes. “Have you considered just letting a foreclosure go through?”
I pull my eyes from her, looking around the room and trying to see more than just my fucked-up childhood after my parents died. It’s nearly impossible to remember any good times, and I certainly had none in this home, but my mother did. She was raised with love and devotion, parents who doted on her until she made the wrong choice in a
