Chapter 2

At two in the morning, Queenie video-called me.

"Look, babe."

She spun in a slow circle so I could see Greg Henson's exhibition, her voice bright with excitement. "So many people, and every single one of them is praising it. Greg finally made it."

Yeah. He'd finally made it.

Except his success was painted with my parents' blood.

"Babe, why aren't you saying anything?"

I looked at Queenie through the phone camera, my gaze as flat as if I were staring at a stranger.

"Say what? Congratulate him?"

Queenie's tone turned petulant. "Of course you should congratulate him. You know how hard Greg worked to pull off this exhibition, everything he went through, he—"

For two solid minutes she talked, and every word was about the hardships Greg had suffered, the pain he'd endured.

And what about me?

What about my parents?

Was their settlement money supposed to be one more brick laid in the road to Greg's success?

Then again, of course it was. The dead could never matter as much as the living.

"Queenie!"

Greg walked over, saw me on the screen, and smiled.

The smile was pure mockery.

"So it's Job. If I'd known you two were in the middle of a cozy little phone chat, I wouldn't have come over."

Queenie cooed at him. "What cozy phone chat. We're an old married couple. I was just telling him you succeeded, sharing the good news with him."

"Is that so?" Greg raised an eyebrow. "Job, are you happy?"

My eyes went red in an instant. Through gritted teeth I said, "I'm happy. So happy I could kill you."

"Babe!"

Queenie's face went hard.

"What kind of vile thing is that to say, you—"

"Queenie!" I cut her off, forcing down the pain twisting inside me, my voice cold as I asked, "Do you know what day it is today? Today is the one-year anniversary of the crash that killed my parents. Do you think I should be happy?"

The last words came out almost as a shout.

Queenie went white in a flash, flustered. "You're right, I'm sorry, I forgot."

I stared at her. It wasn't the look you give a stranger anymore. It was the look you give an enemy.

My own wife had forgotten the anniversary of her in-laws' deaths, and spent the day thrilled that her first love had pulled off an exhibition.

Did she even deserve to be called human?

Seeing the look in my eyes, Queenie's tears spilled over. "Babe, I was wrong."

"Ah."

Greg sighed and pulled her half into his arms.

"The fault isn't yours, it's mine. Job, Queenie didn't mean it. If you want to blame someone, blame me."

"And besides, I'm truly grateful to your mother and father. So once I'm back, I'll go to their grave myself, light some incense, and kneel to thank them for what they gave."

Hearing that, I nearly smashed the phone in my rage.

He'd painted his road to success red with my parents' blood, and now he stood there playing the saint, saying he'd kneel at their grave to give thanks.

He wanted to make sure my parents couldn't even rest in peace.

But Queenie believed him. She looked at Greg with gratitude, then said to me through her tears,

"Babe, in a week, no, two days I'll come back. Wait for me. I'll go to Mom and Dad's grave myself and beg their forgiveness."

I drew a deep breath and said coldly,

"Fine. I'll wait for you."