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I got a phone call last week, announcing my parents died in a car crash. Even though I've been estranged from them for more than a decade, the death of any family member is hard, regardless of your relationship with them. And this was two of my family members. The ones who raised me, taught me, and shaped me into who I am. Of course, all of that resulted in me disagreeing with them more often than not, which definitely wasn't their intention. But, I'm growing up in a generation who questions everything, including the way they were raised, the ideals passed down, and what we were subjected to at a young age. I learned I needed to give myself compassion before anyone else in order to survive these trying times.

Our finals words to each other were through a dumbass text conversation over social media. We fought about racism, politics, and their ignorant bigotry. I don't think I'll ever be able to shake it. I keep telling myself it's over. I have to accept and move on. All easier said than done as I still have to bury my parents, go through their things, and sell my childhood home. Man, that's a lot... Step by step...

The first thing I need to do is go to the family's lawyers. They haven't seen me since I was eighteen, just before I went to college. I wouldn't be surprised if everyone in my parents' life thinks I'm dead. Time to continue with the shocks of my SOAP opera of a life.

I phone the lawyers' office. The assistant who answered my call insists I come in straight away, offering to send a car to take me there and back. I decline. I don't enjoy when things are out of my control.

Their offices have changed location, into a newer, taller, shinier building, with underground parking. After living in California for the last nine years, I have issues with going underground. So I park on the street.

I walk into the wide open lobby to the security desk where three guards sit. I wait for one of them to notice me.

"Easton O'Brallaghan for Mill and Wyatt," I say.

The three guards shoot up their eyes and eyebrows. They don't believe my name is real. I don't seem like an Easton... or an O'Brallaghan. My golden skin and jet black hair couldn't be farther from an Irish last name.

"Mr. O'Brallaghan," a voice from out of nowhere states.

The four of us break eye contact to view this new figure: a dapperly dressed, young woman. She approaches me ominously slow, studying me, outstretching her hand as she nears me.

The first thing I notice are her eyes. Heterochromia. Complete heterochromia. I've never met someone with such a condition. I've only known people with sectoral.

One eye is brown and the other green.

I take her hand, "And your name?"

"Olive Wyatt. I'm here to take you upstairs."

"Lead the way."

She escorts me to the elevators and presses the button for the top floor. We don't say a word the entire way up.

The ding as we reach the top floor rings seemingly out of tune. Odd. Almost as odd as her not giving me her condolences for both of my parents dying.

She takes me to a corner office with a large view of downtown Kansas City.

"Would you mind, shutting the door?" She says politely and she takes a seat behind the desk.

I do as she says and stroll into the room.

"I'm sorry, I thought I was meeting with Junior Mill."

"He's dead. Along with my father."

"My condolences."

"They were running this place into the ground. We're better off without them."

Okay, then. I keep my mouth shut from gaping in reaction and scooch out one of the chairs from in front of her desk.

"I hope that's all right," she states almost sincerely.

She doesn't care. There's something afoot. I don't think my parents were the type of people to be greeted in the lobby of an expensive skyscraper in downtown. My mind races as to why I'm here, why I was greeted by one of the named partners in the lobby, and personally escorted up by her. I try to keep expressionless.

"I printed your parents will and have it right here." She opens a manilla folder to one page. "Everything goes to our only son, Easton O'Brallaghan. Everything."

That I react to.

"That's all it says?" I ask dumbly.

I could tell Olive wanted to roll her eyes at that question, but instead she takes a breath and slides me the will.

It's written in my dad's handwriting. Signed by Edward Wyatt and my mom.

"Okay. I have no idea what everything is," I almost say under my breath.

"We figured. In all honesty, we thought you were dead. But when we found you, we had already done research on your parents' estate as well as their investments. It totals a pretty hefty some of money," she explains.

They must have the worst private investigator of all time if they thought I was dead. Unless that's their excuse so it doesn't seem weird they did research on my parents' estate without waiting to locate their next of kin first. I do my best to keep a stupid face.

"Which is?" I ask.

"Fifty million dollars."

"What?"

"You heard me, Mr. O'Brallaghan. Fifty. Million. Dollars."

She wants the money. But she's so conspicuous.

"Great," I say standing up sharply. "Is that all?"

"Besides needing a check for legal fees, that is all."

"Alrighty. Give it to the receptionist on the way out?"

"That works fine," she scans me.

I begin to head for the door.

"Will you be staying at your parents' house?" She asks after me.

You mean, my house? Not sure why that's pertinent.

I turn back to her. "No," I answer simply. I spin right around and out of her office.

I return to reception and write a check.

"Will you need validation for parking?" the receptionist asks.

"No, that's okay. I just came into a large sum of money I have no idea what to do with," I reply.

The receptionist concentrates their eyebrows.

I press the down button and wait for the elevator.

It arrives and I step in, pressing the button with an L for lobby.

I observe the receptionist dial a number on the phone. She speaks as the doors start to close, "He's parked in the--"

--The doors shut. I know what she was going to say and who she was talking to.

They did not play this out well at all.

I wonder if my parents ever told anyone I'm a private investigator. Hopefully they respected me enough as their kid to keep my anonymity.

I immediately go again to the morgue.

"Not done saying goodbye?" the mortician asks.

"Not exactly. May I ask if everyone else died in the crash?"

"No one else. It was a hit and run. Not sure how anyone could survive, the way both cars were mangled."

"Thanks," I instantly leave. The good thing about grieving is everyone will excuse any kind of behavior.

I wait til nightfall and approach the place I grew up in from afar...

Lights are on in the house.

I spectate for hours as various lights turn on and off around the house until all of them are out again.

They would certainly leave someone to stand watch in case I decide to drop by.

My parents were strict growing up. Therefore, I know every single way to get in and out of the house unnoticed. Didn't think this would come in handy again.

The easiest way in and out for me was up the ivy trellis in the backyard, which leads up to a bathroom window on the second floor.

I find my way there.

These people have to be new at this. No one's guarding the back of the house. So unprofessional.

I climb my way to the second story to a completely ransacked bathroom. I can only imagine how the rest of the house is.

I take off my shoes as to keep as silent as possible. My feet are going to hate me if anything shattered on the floor.

I grab some WD-40 out of my back pocket, knowing my parents' doors squeak like every old house's, and oil the hinges.

The place is destroyed. I have a feeling I know what they were going after.

I quietly step on the floorboards I know don't squeak, thank goodness for my angsty, teenage, rebel phase.

My parents' study is always locked, but the doors are bashed in. The wall-to-wall bookcase covering three out of the four walls is disheveled. Our family portrait, which hangs over the fireplace is ripped to shreds, revealing a safe.

The first safe I broke into when I felt confident in cracking them. My parents weren't even mad. They just made me swear I would never do this again. Of course, that was in my angsty, teenage, rebel phase, so I had my fingers crossed. I explored every part of that safe, all the files, counted the money, read their will, which at the time didn't include me.

The safe has four holes drilled into it, uncovering each of the lock mechanisms, all of the security latches now broken.

I open the partially ajar safe door and peer inside, nothing left.

Obviously in a rush to get in and get out, they didn't check the back of the safe... I swivel it open revealing a false back, hiding a little black book.

I pull it out and revolve around just as the lights are turned on.

An androgynous figure stands before me, dressed in all black, gun at the ready. They turn the safety off.

"Give me the book, and I won't shoot," the voice-modulated figure says.

I stride towards them.

"Seriously? What assurances do I have?" I continue forward.

"You don't. You just have to trust me."

I stand a yard away from them.

"Trust the father who dragged his daughter into his scheme of killing my parents for their fortune. Maybe. Only because I know you didn't kill my parents yourself. You don't have the guts. You don't even have the wherewithal to show your face. Even though I just revealed who you are."

"You don't know who I am."

"Yes, I do, Edward Wyatt. You know, most cases of heterochromia are genetic. And while you have the advantage of colored contact lenses that could easily match your brown colored eye, you turned on the lights, revealing one eye lighter than the other, giving yourself away. And while your daughter can hold fast, she doesn't seem like the type who can hold a gun. That's definitely a boomer generation thing."

Edward doesn't move.

"Fine. You can have this book. Not sure of its importance to you. But you're welcome for finding it," I continue.

I hold out the book.

Edward looks from me to the book then back to me. He swipes the book from my hand, gun still at the ready as he backs out of the room and down the hall.

I follow him out into the hall and watch him go down the stairs. A peculiar smell fills my nose. Gasoline.

I sprint down the opposite side of the hall and burst into my room, also tousled.

I get a whiff of smoke as I grab a sheet from the bed to cover my mouth and get low to the ground.

I throw my eyes to my bookcase and crouch hop to one side of it. I press on a wall panel which unlocks to reveal a hidden compartment full of nicknacks, my old investigative gear, and a big black book. I tuck the book away in my jacket pocket.

Smoke fills my room as I make my way to my bedroom window which faces the front yard.

I peek out to see Edward flipping through the little black book, filled with blank pages.

He whirls back around as I duck down from the window.

I army crawl through all the broken everything on the ground back to the bathroom from whence I came.

I survey the trellis and notice flames coming out from every window on the first floor.

I quickly swing out the window and scale as far down the trellis as possible, before I feel the heat of the fire on my feet.

I drop the rest of the way landing with a thud. Luckily I've fallen further and know how to catch myself.

I sprint through the backyard just as the fire department arrives.

I stumble back to my car coughing and watch my childhood home ablaze as I open the big black book, scanning every email address and password combo, stock options, the names of my parents' "safe" friends and worst enemies, and those supposedly murdered by Henry Wyatt and his cretans. Lastly, folded and tucked away in a back folder of the book, the insurance policy for the house.

Time to locate a new lawyer.