The Inheritance Read Online Free

dad used to hot wire cars and was arrested once.”
    Louis: “Congratulations.”
    Cara: “Yeah. At first it was nice but then my mom had to get another job and overworked herself to a mental breakdown.”
    It was ridiculous. Their unbelievably cliché sob stories that only sixteen year old me would believe. And I did. I eagerly slurped up their words.
    Me: “Well, my dad’s never been to jail.”
    Cara: “Good for you.”
    Me: “But, um, he works with – for – a lot of bad guys. You know, the crooks you see on the news all the time.”
    Cara: “What crooks?”
    Me: “I don’t wanna name names or anything.”
    Louis: “Oh come on.”
    Me: “No. Just. He’s into some shit. That’s all.”
    They tried to pry more information out but I wrapped my lips around my cup and refused to say any more. Louis sulked in his chair, arms crossed over his chest as he flickered his gaze between the window and me.
    Cara smiled. “Our dads are all into some shit, we should make a club or something.”
    I smiled. “Yeah, that’d be cool.”
    From her messenger bag, army green and covered in patches, pins and buttons – So trendy! So cool! – Cara pulled her camera and said, “I’m doing this art thing in Toronto next week. Just like, photos of people we met in Chicago. Only interesting people though and…I hope you don’t think this is weird, but would you mind if I took your picture?”
    She had me at “only interesting people”.
    My photo was in the paper a week later, tucked away in the finance section but it immediately caught my father’s eyes. JULIAN WHEELER’S DAUGHTER REVEALS FATHER IS A CRIMINAL. Paragraph after paragraph highlighted my father’s suspected crimes and at the end, tacked on like an after-thought, was the single sentence: Unsurprising to no one, his daughter hates him.
    That summer was the first and only time I was sent home early.

Four
     
    “Go on, you should say something.” Gina bumps her shoulder into mine, a shimmering black sequin catching on the short sleeve of my dress. She plucks it off and drops it on the carpet, covering it with her heel. “Everyone would love to hear from you.”
    I wanted to remain standing in the rear of the chapel, my back against the pale pink wall, heels digging into the grey carpet, but Gina wrapped her arm around my wrist and dragged me to the first pew. There are eight pews sectioned in sets of two, all filled with sniffling men and women, dotting their eyes with handkerchief’s, wiping away tears with the backs of their hands. Clusters of people line the walls, hands clasped respectfully in front of them, all of us turned towards the front of the room where my father’s ashes rest in a ten-thousand dollar urn. Solid onyx and gold.
    The ceremony was short and conducted by a lone pastor who zipped through my father’s life. Born in Brooklyn, raised in Brooklyn, moved to Chicago, died in Chicago. He rattled off a list of his charitable contributions, four thousand dollars there, sixteen thousand dollars here, opening small windows to my father’s life where enough sun could peek in to wipe away some of the dark.
    Now is the time for remarks, the pastor abandoning the podium so others may speak, but we all remain squirming in our seats, eyes darting around the room to see who’ll be the first to make a move.
    Darlene sits behind us. Beautiful and tall as ever. She keeps one hand wrapped in her husband’s, the other on her son’s shoulder. He’s adorable and obedient, keeping his head down as he flips through a book. She’s said all of three words to us, “I’m so sorry,” as if none of this has affected her. As if she washed her hands of my father the minute she left him, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she had.
    She has nothing to say and neither does Gina, who nervously chews at her lips before she whispers, “I would go up and say something, you know, but I don’t wanna cry, I mean look at me.” Her make-up’s caked on in layers –