Cards of Love: Knight of Swords

He shrugged. “Next semester maybe.”

My phone rang. Praying it was Roman, I answered right away.

“Juliet Hayworth?”

“Yes?”

“Hayden Porter, attorney for Mrs. Shields.”

“Oh! Hi!” I almost jumped out of my seat with excitement. Maybe he had good news about Roman.

“I’m so sorry to tell you this over the phone, but Mrs. Shields passed away this morning.”

“What? No. That can’t be.” My fingers turned ice cold and my head throbbed. This had to be a mistake. “I just saw her last night.”

“You did?” His suspicious tone penetrated my fog of disbelief.

“Yes,” I snapped. “I try to stop by every night to help her water the plants and take care of things around the house.”

“I see,” he said slowly. In the background, it sounded as if he were taking notes. “That’s good to hear, Miss Hayworth. She was very fond of you.”

I swallowed hard, but couldn’t force out a single word.

“Juliet? Are you still there?”

“I’m here,” I whispered.

“I understand this is a shock and a difficult time, but I’ll need you to come by my office. She already made all her funeral arrangements after Raymond died, but you still need to—”

“Wait, what? Why do you need me?”

“It will be easier to explain in person. I can come to you, if that’s easier.”

“No. Give me the address. I’ll be there after my last class.”

The rest of my day was a painful blur. Mrs. Shields had been my most maternal influence. Until more recently our relationship had been mostly superficial greetings and chats over banana bread. She’d been good to me. And to Roman.

Oh God.

It hit me. Roman wouldn’t be moving in with Mrs. Shields now.

I ripped a piece of paper out of my notebook and jotted down a quick letter to him that I dropped in the mail on the way to Mr. Porter’s office.

It took two different city buses to get to his office. With Mrs. Shields gone, it didn’t seem right to borrow her car anymore.

Tears pricked my eyes. She was really gone.

Why didn’t I stay later? She seemed fine last night, but I should have checked in on her this morning. What if I’d noticed she wasn’t feeling well and I could’ve gotten her to the hospital or something?

“Come in, Juliet,” Mr. Porter said.

I sank into the antique leather chair across from his desk and inhaled the musty scent of law books and yellowing paper.

“What happened?” I blurted out before he took his seat.

“It looks like she had a heart attack this morning.”

A strangled cry escaped me. I’d been late to school and worried about Pip, so I didn’t stop by her house. Didn’t even think to check on her.

“CPS was conducting their home inspection. They were the ones to find her and call emergency services.”

“Oh my God.”

“Juliet, you’re seventeen, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Your aunt and uncle are your legal guardians?”

I frowned at the question. Why did he care? “Yes, why?”

He flipped open a folder on his desk and took out a stapled stack of papers. “Save for a few personal items, Mrs. Shields left everything to you.”

It took a few minutes for his words to sink in.

“She what?”

“The house and its contents. Her car. Some investments. It’s a small estate, but it should help you through college. In the event that she passed while you were underage, she appointed me as trustee until your twentieth birthday. I’ll handle all the bills, taxes, and other matters for you.”

“What about her daughter?”

He shook his head. “Kimmy was left some Christmas decorations and a jewelry box that contains items Mr. Shields gave his wife over the years. But everything else is yours.” He gave me a sympathetic smile. “She said you were the only person who worried about her or checked up on her. She knew you had a rough life and she wanted to make things easier on you.”

Tears freely streamed down my cheeks.

Because of Mrs. Shields, I’d be able to attend college without worrying about how to pay for it.

I could move out of my aunt and uncle’s house.

“Can my aunt and uncle stop me from moving into the house?”

He frowned. “That’s another reason why she appointed me as the trustee, she didn’t want either of them having any control over this money.” He consulted the papers in his hands again. “You’ll be eighteen in less than a year. Legally, there isn’t a lot they can do to compel you to stay in their home. As long as you stay out of trouble and keep going to school, the police won’t get involved.”

“What about Roman?”

“That’s a different story. He’s a ward of the state. They can compel him to stay in foster care until he turns eighteen.”

I chewed on my thumbnail. “Dammit.”

“He’s turning eighteen in another month, right? They’ll have to let him out then. If not, I’ll file a petition to get him released.”

“Thank you.”

He reviewed documents and deeds with me. None of it made a lot of sense. I trusted he would handle the legal papers.

Mr. Porter didn’t want me taking the bus so late in the afternoon and offered to drive me home.

“Will you take me to Mrs. Shields’ house?”

“Of course.” He hesitated and tapped his thumb against the steering wheel. “Things may be a little messy from the paramedics and everyone else going through the home, but everything has been processed. You can stay there tonight if you want to.”

Stay in the house where Mrs. Shields died? I hadn’t considered that part. It didn’t frighten me though. If anything it made me feel closer to her.

Mr. Porter walked me inside and helped me straighten up downstairs before shaking my hand and leaving.

I glanced at the clock. My aunt and uncle wouldn’t be home yet.

I dialed the house phone and left a message explaining that I wouldn’t be home tonight.

Forty-One

Roman

Eighteen.

Happy birthday to me.

A few days later, like a prisoner who’d served his time, I walked out of Castle Correctional Center with nothing but the clothes on my back, and a couple dollars in my pockets.

Ms. Simpson met me in the circular driveway. “Can I drop you off somewhere?”

I snorted and shook my head. Now she’s concerned.

Since Castle was in the middle of nowhere, I accepted the offer and asked her to drop me off at Mrs. Shields’ house.

Juliet’s house now.

She’d written to tell me about Mrs. Shields’ death.

I accepted my first fight that night. Won it too.

Won the next one and the one after that. Eventually some of the counselors challenged me to fight them.

The unspoken rule was that we were supposed to let them win.

Fuck that.

Won those fights too.

Never paid up the money they owed me either.

They were more than happy to see me leave.

I watched the crumbling building fade away in the side mirror and felt nothing.

I brushed my fingers over my split lip and flipped the visor down and stared at myself. My battered face was the least of the injuries I’d come out of that place with.

“Roman,” Ms. Simpson said.

“Don’t.”

“What happened in there?”

“Why do you care? Are you going to do something about it? Can you even do anything about it?”

“I can try.”

“That’s great. I’m sure your efforts will be appreciated.” I didn’t bother hiding the bitterness in my tone. I was done playing along or sugarcoating things.

I was finally free.