Ed loads the last cooler and shuts the cargo door with a hearty slam that shakes the plane. He nods and ducks around the two of us as best he can for a guy his size. I can’t blame him for steering clear of my shit, whatever the hell it is. Going to the back rope line, he waits for me to climb in and do my pre-flight checks. That’s right, time to go. He’ll help other planes that use this dock.

“Why the hell would you do that?” I growl, not liking anyone to keep tabs on me. Especially a lawyer.

“I’ve tried to reach you for the past three weeks.” Shankle follows me to the front of the plane.

“Sorry, been busy running a business here. But you know that, since you’re keeping those tabs and all.” I climb onto the runner and reach to open the door, ready to get the hell out of here.

“I represent your father. Jonathan Bridger.”

I freeze for a second and then turn, bobbing up and down along with the plane on the water.

“I’m not sure which is worse. Creditors or my fucking sperm donor,” I grumble and glare. “Or a lawyer representing him.”

“I assure you, I bear good news.” Shankle offers a shaky smile.

“I don’t give a shit about the man, just as he’s never given one about me. Good news? The only good news you could bear is that he’s dead.”

He huffs out a laugh. “It seems I may have made your day then. He is, in fact, dead.”

I blink, processing what he just said. “Holy shit.” Then I grin.

The fucker married my mother and then divorced her before I was even born. Left her with nothing. Sure, he paid the obligatory child support, but that wasn’t what she wanted from him. She expected love from a spouse. Not to be abandoned and for him to move on to another woman. Or two. Or fucking more for all I know.

My father was never a part of my life. Hell, I never even met him. Just hated his guts for what he did to my mom.

“How?” Yeah, I want to know what finally brought the man down.

“Brain aneurysm.”

Instant and painless. Too bad.

“Thanks for letting me know.” I open the cockpit door, ready to climb in and leave the bastard behind, just like always.

“There’s more,” Shankle adds.

I glance up at the sky. “That’s enough for me. He’s dead. Good riddance.”

“I need fifteen minutes of your time.”

“So do those oysters in the back.” I point to the rear of the plane.

“Fine. I’ll ride with you.”

I glare again. Not what I expected. He steps down onto the runner behind me and opens the rear door, the one for passengers. The plane’s small enough that it bobs from the shift in weight.

Lovering Seaplane usually takes passengers, but for supplemental income, we run supplies and various cargo. Like oysters. I’m used to customers, but not ones who climb aboard last-minute for a chat. In Shankle’s case, it’s to talk to me about my father, and most likely piss me off.