The Last Piece of His Heart (Lost Boys 3)

She was pronounced dead. Right there in the kitchen. Because I couldn’t stop the monster…

“When I was a kid in school, we had recess at 10:05,” I said. “That was my favorite time of day.”

“Then you could go out and play with your friends?” Cami asked.

“Yep. Exactly.”

“That’s my favorite time too,” Lily said.

Maryann returned holding a box from a local bakery I passed on my walk to Central every day when I wasn’t suspended or working odd jobs.

“For you and Mr. Wentz.” She set the box in my hand. “Surprise! It’s pumpkin.”

“That’s the pie we were going to bring to Auntie’s!” Cami said.

“You said our job was to bring the dessert,” Lily added.

I started to hand the box back. “I can’t take this.”

Maryann stopped me. “Yes, you can. I’m trying to imagine the feast two bachelors may have cooked up.” She smiled softly, though her forehead was creased in worry. “Please.”

“What about Auntie Colleen?” Lily asked.

Cami nodded. “She’s going to be pissed.”

I shot Maryann a look. “Yeah, what about Auntie Colleen? She’s going to be pissed.”

The girls busted up, giggling.

Maryann smirked and rolled her eyes. “We’ll stop at the store and pick up something else,” she told her daughters. “Tell Ronan bye-bye.”

Again, I was surrounded, two pairs of little arms hugging me around the waist. I don’t know what it was with those girls and hugging.

“Bye, Ronan!”

“Byeeee!”

“Thanks for the turkeys,” I said, then to Maryann, “and the pie.”

She smiled. “Happy Thanksgiving, Ronan.”

They left and, as usual, my place felt a little darker and emptier. At quarter to two, I grabbed the invoices and the pie and waited for the bus. The complex Nelson managed—the Bluffs—was at the very edge of my walking range and in an even worse neighborhood than where Miller and I lived.

The iron railings were rusted, and cages covered every lower window. The entire complex was painted a dark green not long ago. Nelson said it cost him a “pretty penny,” but why spend the money fixing the cracks when you could cover them with paint?

My uncle’s place was on the lower level, corner unit. I knocked and waited. A kid on a tricycle pedaled in circles in the cracked and pitted parking lot, watching me.

“Yeah?” Nelson called from inside.

“It’s me.”

“Come in.”

His apartment was larger than mine but seemed smaller. Stacks of newspapers, garbage bags filled with God-knew-what, and piles of old clothes were heaped all over. Not quite ready for Hoarders but getting there.

My uncle was watching football from a dark green upholstered chair that matched the building’s exterior. Slashes of yellow stuffing puffed out where the old fake leather had dried up and split. A TV tray table sat beside him with three empty beer bottles and an ashtray overflowing with pistachio shells. He had the footrest on the chair kicked up; the carpet beneath—a ruddy orange shag—was littered with more shells, more newspapers, and empty soda bottles. The entire place reeked of solitude. The kind that has settled so deep, you don’t care anymore who sees your place, even when it looks like shit.

“Here are the invoices,” I said. “And pie.”