Epilogue

Phoenix

There’s never been a good time to say goodbye to your family.

When you stand in front of the priest on your wedding day, you promise to love your partner forever. You believe it. At least, I did. Emma did. Together, we were supposed to be unstoppable.

Our dream was to conquer the world together. We’d give our money away, and we’d spend all of our time helping people.

Emma wanted to build libraries, and I did, too. We wanted to pay for classes. We wanted to create jobs.

And then we had Tamara.

And then we had Quinton.

Our children were perfect, wonderful little creatures whose biggest hobbies were making us laugh and making us think too hard.

I cherished every moment, and then they were over.

Car accidents are things that happen to other people. Not me. Not my family.

Only, then it happened.

Now they’re gone.

It’s been four years since I lost my wife and our children, and now, as I stand at their graves, I weep.

I do this every Sunday morning. It’s just me and Gerald here. He’s standing by his own wife’s grave. He’s doing the same damn thing because we’re just two broken men who don’t know any better.

“I miss you,” I say.

Emma can’t hear me, but I want her to know this anyway.

“I need you.”

She’s never coming back.

I kneel in front of her tombstone, and I whisper our favorite song lyrics. I sing to her until my throat hurts, and then I walk quietly back to the car. I slide into the driver’s side, and I wait. I’m not sure what I’m waiting for, and I’m not sure how long I sit, but I do.

Then, finally, I start driving.

Somehow, I end up at the office. I ride quietly up in the elevator until I reach the top floor. It’s here that I slip out of the elevator, creep down the hall, and head toward my office. There’s always work to be done, and even though it’s Sunday, I want to be here.

Most of the employees follow a strict no-weekends policy. I don’t expect my staff to work weekends. Honestly, I don’t want them there.

So imagine my surprise when I push open my office door, and the room isn’t empty.

It’s not even close.

The woman standing in the center of the room turns when she sees me.

“Oh,” she says.

“Oh.”

“It’s you.”

“Yes.”

“You aren’t supposed to be here,” she says.

No, I’m not.

The story continues in Dirty Little Billionaires: Book Three.