Blue Boy 1: Bullet by Garrett Leigh Page B

medical research—the list was endless. It was early evening by the time he pushed open her unlocked front door.
    The house was just as she’d lived—chaotic and loud. It struck him as morbidly ironic that her last moments had been so quiet and peaceful. He passed through the cluttered kitchen and into the living room. The TV was still playing one of the quiz shows she’d enjoyed so much. He crossed the room in two strides and shut it off, exasperated. Why couldn’t she shut the damned thing off?
    He turned in a slow circle, searching for a point of focus. His gaze fell on the bureau, half-hidden by the open door. It was beside the liquor cabinet. He swiped a bottle of bourbon from Bella’s stash and opened the first drawer.
    It took a while, but he eventually unearthed a pile of official-looking papers and envelopes. He carried them, the bourbon, and a glass into the disused dining room and sat down at the table. Though he’d spent more time than he cared to remember toiling through Bella’s finances, the stack of paperwork seemed imposing. The first inch of hard liquor helped, but not much. Though he poured another, he knew he wouldn’t drink it.
    He reached for the closest thick envelope. It was weathered and dog-eared, like it had been opened again and again and stuffed back in its drawer. Inside, he expected to find bundled-up betting slips or evidence of hidden debts he knew nothing about, but instead, his fingers closed around banded stacks of photographs. Bewildered, he pulled them out and set them in front of him. There were dozens and dozens of them, arranged in chronological order and spanning decades and decades of Bella’s life.
    Levi shook his head. The tidy pile of memories didn’t fit with the Bella he knew, and he couldn’t remember a time when it did. He flipped through the first stack. Some were dated, some not. Some of them were labeled with names and locations; some of them he had to guess. He came to an old photograph of a trailer park in Nevada and paused, staring hard at the faded image. They’d lived in the trailer for a while. Bella had hated it and spent her days screaming at Ernesto to get a better job, but Levi had loved it. To a six-year-old boy, the tiny tin box on wheels had seemed almost magical.
    Bella’s phone rang. Levi ignored it, setting the photo aside and reaching for another. The next image took him forward in time, back to LA and the home he’d spent most of his life in. The photo was of his father, posing outside his new workshop. Levi had been too young at the time to know what Ernesto’s dreams had been. By the time he was old enough to understand, the reality of the gang-affiliated chop shop had become normal. He didn’t know any different until his own dreams had lured him away from California.
    Levi turned the picture over with a heavy sigh, shoving it and the rest of them back in the box. He was stalling, using the masochistic trip down memory lane to avoid the arduous task of trolling through Bella’s papers. There were things to be done—burial arrangements, notifications for creditors and insurance companies, and bank accounts to close. He wasn’t going to bother with her personal belongings. There was nothing in the house for him but bad memories, and with no siblings or surviving family, who really cared? Not him.
    He spent much of the night pulling together the paperwork he needed and compiling a list of calls to make in the morning. The sun was beginning to rise when he came across a stray photograph he’d missed. The image of Bella cradling a swaddled infant in her arms was grainy and smudged, but the words, printed neatly in blue ink on the back, were legible.
    Levi, 6/9/1985. My love, my life, my world.
    He swallowed, blinking hard, but the words blurred away to nothing. The numbness evaporated, and the hard cast protecting his heart cracked open a wide fissure. He cast the photo aside, buried his face in his arms, and wept for the mother he’d