Inherit (3 page)

But no one comes. The forest waits in silence. Clouds eclipse the moon, and I instinctively move closer to Jonas in the encompassing dark.

He presses the solid roll of paper in my hand. “It’s for you, Wren. Take it.”

I flex my fingers, squeeze tight, and feel the edges of the paper bite into my palm. This isn’t play money. This could pay for a live-in nurse to stop by for Bestemor a few times a week. The dishwasher needs repair. The roof leaks in at least eight different places. Normally I try not to think about any of those things because I can’t help fix them. What little money I make goes to groceries, gas, and a tiny bit of fun.

I need this.

I nod and Jonas takes my hand, grabs the keychain hanging from his belt loop and shines a beam of bright white light into the dark. After a few silent minutes of walking, we’re back at the truck. The fox is curled next to the tire, and I feel a glow of relief.

“There it is.” I sigh and head towards it at a run, shocked by the relief bubbling through me. I’m so happy the fox is safe and sound, I drop my hand and bury my fingers in the silky layers of fur at its neck without a second thought for the tiny mouth armed with barbs of razor teeth. The fox rubs against my hand and looks up at me with eyes that flash with unmistakable intelligence, and it occurs to me that this fox is smart. Not like a trained animal or an obedient pet…this fox strikes me as a creature that has the ability to actually reason on some kind of higher plane, and that realization is kind of creepy. And also very cool.

“Do you have AAA?” Jonas’s voice trips through my musings.

“No. Or maybe my grandma does. I don’t know. Why?” I follow his pointed finger and see a new tire leaning on the side of my truck.

Jonas paces towards it, kicks it with the toe of his boot, leans over and squints, then narrows his eyes at me.

“This is exactly the right tire for your truck.”

One hand is deep in fox fur, one grasps the mysterious roll of money. My eyes strain in their sockets.

“Leave it.” My voice shakes, and every hair on my body stands on end.

Jonas picks it up and tosses it in the bed, then shoots me a warning look. “That spare is a piece of crap. I don’t care who left it or why, but you need it. I’ll change it when we get to my house.”

“No!” I head to the bed, grab the tire with one hand and make a futile attempt to yank it out while Loki squirms in my other arm. I try again, then give up in disgust and head back to the driver’s side. “Fine, it can stay back there, but it’s not going on this truck. Okay? It’s not. Something freaky is going on, and I don’t want any trouble.”

I pass the warm circle of fox across the seat and Jonas places it on his lap. I shrug his coat off and shove it at him. Nothing makes sense, and I’m unreasonably annoyed with Jonas and his calm, logical refusal to see the insanity of the situation.

“At least put your coat on,” he says, watching me shiver stubbornly.

“I told you, I don’t have a coat with me,” I snarl.

“Then what’s on the back of the seat?”

I crane my neck and my cheek brushes against rich, warm velvet. I swivel my head and see that it’s not just any velvet; it’s the vintage black velvet coat with a pink satin lining that I saw on Etsy for a couple hundred more than I’d ever dare to spend on a coat. Especially when I own a perfectly serviceable pea-green parka purchased during my unfortunate military-inspired phase last year.

Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe this isn’t what I think?

“Jonas, can you see the buttons on this coat?” I ask. They’re folded away from me.

“Yeah.”

“What do they look like?” My voice is a nervous squeak.

“Little silver owls.”

I drop my head on the steering wheel and shake for a few minutes. What the hell is going on?

Chapter 3

Jonas offers me a whole slew of reasons why a roll of money, a tire, and a vintage velvet jacket all fell into my lap; every one of them only makes sense if I am a wizard at an elite private academy or have an extremely unhinged stalker watching my every move. I turn around and check the bed of the truck twice to make sure no shadowy figure with a hook is sitting out there, ready smash through the window to shred me to pieces. Every hair on the back of my neck stands at attention, and I shiver uncontrollably.

“You should put that coat on if you’re cold.” Jonas’s eyes are on me with the hot flicker of too much attention.

“I’m not putting that coat on. I’m not putting that tire on this truck. And I’m not accepting this money. I have no idea where all of this came from, but there’s no way it’s a good thing.” I glance over at Jonas, his eyebrows knit into one dark line in the center of his forehead. “You don’t agree?”

“But they’re things you wanted. Things you need. I mean, it’s like if someone made anonymous donations to your bank account. Would you complain?”

“I don’t have a bank account.”

“But if you did,” he presses. “It’s just generosity coming to you. Who cares where it comes from or why?”

“Because generosity doesn’t just fall out of the sky, Jonas. It always comes from somewhere, and that somewhere is eventually going to want payback.” I realize that I’m rambling like a paranoid psycho, but I know I’m right with every fiber of my being.

“You’re diluting the karma. Just accept the good. Pay it forward if you feel like there needs to be a two-way transaction.” He grins and his shiny teeth glint. “You could give me half of the money.”

“I’m not doing anything with the money,” I insist. “Someone is going to show up and want something in return for this, and I’m not going to give them what they want. I’m going to give the stuff back.” My bold proclamation rings false in my own ears, but I want it to be true. Badly.

Since my parents ditched, Bestemor and I have been forging out own way. Everything from lemonade stands to dog-walking stints and babysitting fiascos brought in just enough until I got my official working papers at fifteen and never had less than two jobs at a time since. Her tiny pension coupled with my hard work have left us a little lean, but clear of debts, monetary and otherwise. I’ve never been comfortable being under someone else’s monetary care, and I can’t start now, especially when I don’t know who that someone is.

“Do you know anyone rich?” Jonas asks.

Hmm. “I haven’t seen my dad in twelve years, but he could be rich, theoretically. He could also be a monk. Or dead. I have no clue.” I let my eye bob to the corner to see if Jonas is going to ask about JR.

He takes the bait. “What about that tool you used to date?” Jonas tries to look cool, but he drums his fingers on the interior of the car and taps his foot in a moody beat on the floorboards.

“JR definitely comes from money. But he wasn’t exactly attentive with gifts.” I watch him tighten like a spring as I unfurl, stretching my fingers over the steering wheel and rolling my shoulders. Why is it so pleasant for me to see him uncomfortable about my ex?

“His parents own half the damn state and he never bought you a gift?” The moody foot beat turns triumphant and his fingers go back to their gentle fox massage.

“I didn’t say that. JR bought me gifts, but they were always things I didn’t want.” That smacks of ungratefulness, but it’s solid truth.

“Like what?” When I narrow my eyes at him, Jonas explains, “It’s for research. How can I rule JR out as a suspect if I don’t know what kind of gifts he normally gave you? I mean, that coat is a very nice gift. And if it’s vintage, it could have been expensive.”

“First of all, this coat has no label. If JR was going to get something vintage, it would be vintage show-off, like Chanel. A tire is too practical and too small. He would get me a car. And a wad of money is too proletariat. Jewelry, heavy on the diamonds, electronics, or big getaway trips were more his speed.”

Ah, JR, the playboy from my past. Nothing was too much for him, and since his parents gave him a ridiculous allowance he never had to work for, he didn’t mind sharing while I was being an appropriately admiring girlfriend. In the year we dated, I had amassed four gaudy jewel-studded necklaces shaped like hearts, an electronic entertainment center I needed to call a helpline to turn on, and tickets to Barbados for the weekend with a suite to ourselves. His parents even called Bestemor to tell them how harmless it would be. She said ‘absolutely not’ and JR pouted for weeks. I was actually relieved.

When I broke it off with him, I sent all the stuff back, but he brought it to my house and dumped it on my doorstep, then told me to pawn it if I really didn’t want it. The necklaces alone covered our utility bills for the rest of the year.

“So this stuff isn’t from the ex.” Jonas sounds smug. “Maybe your fox is lucky.”

I glance at the little ball of red fur curled on his lap, twitching in its sleep. So far this fox has afforded me a long trip to the airport security desk, a flat tire, a scary trek into the woods, and an uncomfortable/wonderful few hours with Jonas Balto. That doesn’t smack of luck to me.

When I glide in front of Jonas’s tiny white clapboard house, he smiles his thanks, moves the fox off of his lap like it’s a newborn baby and reaches over to grab my hand. He pulls a pen out of his pocket and writes his number in neat, blocky writing. “Thanks for the ride. And Wren? Call me if you need anything.” He points at my hand and one last sexy smile spreads over his lips. “I mean it. Call.”

All the way home, I try to act like what just happened is no big deal at all. Guys have given me their numbers before. JR Maclean was considered the hottest catch at Immaculate Conception High School freshman year. Girls bared their claws for a chance to date him, but he chose me. And I dumped him. I’m no babe in the woods when it comes to dating. So why do I keep purposefully adjusting my hand so Jonas’s number won’t rub off?

I flip off the headlights and cut the engine a couple hundred feet from the front of my house. Bestemor loves to pop up and check on anyone coming or going on our little side street, and I don’t want to wake her if she’s already blissfully asleep. Much as I love to see her and talk about our day before bed, I hope she’s asleep for the night. Because if she’s sleeping peacefully, at least I don’t have to watch her mind crumble in front of my eyes as an awful ending to this crazy, rough day. I grab my purse, debate on taking the coat, decide to leave it, change my mind because I need it as evidence when I tell Nevaeh my story, and take a long look at the fox, wondering who sent it and why they would have.

Its graceful black legs twitch with tiny bursts of movement offset by stretches of absolute stillness. I wonder if foxes dream. I wonder what the hell I’m going to do with this new pet of mine.

I touched the fox before, during my worry, but that was when I had gobs of adrenaline-based courage coursing through my veins. Now I’m level-headed, and those teeth seem extra scary. But I have to bring it into the house; the thought of this little critter gnawing my upholstery is too worrisome. I bite my tongue for courage and scoop it into my arms, then rush up the crumbling cement steps, past the overgrown weeds and dying potted plants so uncharacteristic of my green-thumbed grandmother, through the screen door with the creaky hinges, into my house.

The air reeks of dust and old food when I open the door. Our house never used to smell that way. Bestemor is one of those housekeepers who pulls all of the furniture into the yard so she can scrub the floors on her hands and knees and beat the rugs on the line every week. Or she used to be that kind of housekeeper. Now she floats in and out of her old self.

I peek in my grandmother’s doily-adorned bedroom and find her, covers tucked under her chin, under a soft quilt. I tiptoe-hopscotch around all the creaky boards and land a soft kiss on her forehead, right where her pale skin meets a wintry shock of fluffy hair. Love buoys my heart, and my happiness bobs and lurches until the stress of the day melts, warmed by the goodness of being home with her again.

Zivalus is sleeping on the couch in the living room, his neck craned back and his mouth hanging open, fly-catcher style. Nevaeh has her chemistry book open on her lap, her legs folded in a graceful origami of long, smooth limbs. She hears me right away and looks up, her face so beautiful and sweet I’m glad she’s on Bestemor’s dusty highback mustard-colored couch waiting for me. She makes my falling-down house feel like home even as it’s in the process of changing into something I don’t quite recognize anymore.

Nevaeh opens her arms and gets up, then her eyes go wide and she stares at the fox. I lean my head towards my bedroom and we creep down the hall, walk into my room, and close the door.

“Wren, tell me that’s not a fox.” Nevaeh leans close and examines my new pet cautiously.

I nod to a laundry basket. “Can you put a blanket in there for me?”

She makes a nest for the fox and I lay it gently down, taking a second to give its ears a quick rub, then we both fall back on my bed. “Tell,” she demands.

“Ugh,” I moan. “I don’t want to.”

“You have to be kidding me,” Nevaeh hisses. “Bestemor made raisin soup tonight, Wren. Raisin. Soup. With buttermilk! Did I tell you that Zivalus is lactose intolerant? But he’s also stupidly polite and he ate three bowls. Between him and your grandmother, the farting was out of control! I put up with all of it because I love you, but you are sorely testing me right now.”

I take Nevaeh’s hand, her long, glittery nails sparkling in the lamplight, and look into her eyes, the strange hazel-green that is so pretty and familiar, it chokes me with happiness. “You will never believe me.”

“Try me.” She yanks on my arm. “C’mon. Tell.”

“I got this fox in a box.” I giggle. She glares. “Sorry. But I did. From Japan. I was on the way home when my truck got a flat, and I pulled in at Warwick’s, but I only had seventeen dollars to my name. Then Jonas Balto came out.”

“Jonas Balto who you had a crush on the whole time you dated that loser JR?” she clarifies.

“I did not. Shut up or I won’t tell you more.” I wait and Nevaeh resists saying anything else. “He offered to change my tire when his shift ended for free, and I gave him a ride home to say thank you.”