Seth Rollins really believed that you couldn't go home again. But here he was. Back in Davenport, Iowa. He didn't want to be here, standing in Memorial Gardens cemetery at the side of his great-uncle's coffin. But here he stood, listening to the minister of the First Davenport Baptist Church deliver the eulogy.
John Rollins had been an admirable man as evidenced by the large turnout of people at the service. Per John's orders, the only service was at the grave site and in true John Rollins fashion, he'd left instructions that the service would be no longer than thirty minutes in length.
Seth wouldn't be surprised if the coffin lid would swing open and the old man sit up in indignation if the service went thirty-one minutes. John Rollins wasn't a man who liked being either disobeyed or thwarted.
John Rollins had been the only relative left alive when Seth's parents were killed in a drive-by shooting when Seth was nine. The only comment the old man had made when meeting Seth was that if his parents had been at home in Davenport, they still would have been alive. He'd never stopped reminding Seth that he was the only reason Seth wasn't sitting in an orphanage or some foster home where he was only wanted for the money the state provided for his care.
The only bright spot in Seth's young life had been the bookstore his great-uncle owned. Seth would spend hours there after school and in the summer at first reading quietly in a corner but then working stocking the shelves and helping customers before finally being given the responsibility for running the register and learning how to find rare books for customers.
The commute was easy because the old man lived on the second floor where he had renovated the area into a large three-bedroom apartment. Seth never asked who was to have occupied the other two bedrooms. He slept in one of the bedrooms and the other remained unoccupied.
John Rollins often gave some of the local kids part-time jobs in the bookstore. The bookstore wasn't located in the better part of Davenport so there were often kids just roaming the streets. The back tables were turned into study areas because the old man insisted that homework was to be done first. And there was no excuse for not doing it because there was a large reference section in the bookstore.
Seth had occasionally made friends with some of the kids his age but had always felt out of place around his great-uncle, more than half convinced he'd be kicked out if he didn't live up to John Rollins' strict rules and expectations. When he'd gotten a partial scholarship to a college in Missouri to major in education, all John Rollins would say was that at least he'd be able to find a decent job. Because the old man didn't believe in inheritances.
So, at age eighteen, Seth had left Davenport, his great-uncle, and the bookstore behind. And never came back. He'd exchanged letters with his great-uncle more out of duty than anything else. He'd gotten his Masters in Education but had realized he had a knack for writing. Fiction. All kinds of fiction.
Before obtaining his Masters' Degree, he'd written two mysteries, one of which hit the New York Times Best Sellers' List at number 5. Under a pen name. By his graduation, he'd written a spy thriller under a different name that had been made into a television mini-series. By the time he was thirty, he'd written four books of a fantasy series that had all hit the NYT Best Sellers' List. Under yet another pen name. A fifth book was currently being edited and he had a solid draft for the sixth book.
Seth had written his grandfather about his success when his first two books had been published. All John Rollins had replied was to continue his education so he'd have something to fall back on. It was wise advice but a 'congratulations' would have been appreciated. A 'proud of you' would've been too much to expect.
Still, his great-uncle had been a good man and helped a lot of kids. A lot of whom were attending the service. Seth could respect their presence and what his great-uncle had done for them.
He also couldn't help but glance at his watch when the service had concluded. Twenty-six minutes in length. John Rollins would have approved.
"Excuse me, you're Seth Rollins, aren't you?"
Seth turned to see a well-dressed dark-haired man next to him. Several people had approached him to offer their condolences. Some he'd remembered. But he didn't recognize this man. "Yes."
"I'm Damien Sandow. I'm your great-uncle's attorney." He held out his hand, and Seth shook it. "I realize this may be somewhat unusual, but we need to talk. About the bookstore and other property."
"Other property?" Seth frowned. "I'm sorry. I'm not knowledgeable about my uncle's business affairs."
"I understand." Sandow half smiled. "There is other property involved. Would one hour at my office be convenient?"
Slowly, Seth nodded and took the card Sandow handed to him. He stuck it in his pocket as the minister approached him.
"Stay as long as you want," the older man smiled.
"Thank you for kind words," Seth replied. He waited as the crowd around the coffin thinned out then walked over and stood looking down at it. For someone who could weave intricate stories and plots with his words, he found he had nothing to say.
"Rest in peace," Seth finally murmured. He turned to walk away only to find another man approaching.
"Mr. Rollins, I'm Mike Mizanin." The other man held out his hand, and Seth automatically shook it. "You don't remember me, do you?"
Seth studied the man closely for a moment. "Maybe? High school, I think." He shook his head. "I'm sorry. There have been so many people…"
"Everyone called me The Miz."
Seth's dark eyes widened. "I do remember you. Spanish class. And English Lit, right?"
"Right," Miz grinned. "Maybe this isn't the best moment to bring this up, but your uncle and I were discussing his selling the bookstore and the building next to it to me. We'd agreed on a price and were ready to have our attorneys draw up the paperwork, but unfortunately…" He glanced at the coffin. "I just wanted to touch base with you and give you my card so when you're able to talk about completing the deal, we can get it going."
Seth took the card and slid it into his pocket. "I'm sure there are legalities involved before I can even discuss that with you. Probate, at least."
"Of course," Miz nodded. "I just wanted to touch base with you about it." He patted Seth's arm. "My condolences, of course."
"Thank you." Seth watch Miz walk away and resisted the urge to wipe the arm of his jacket.
Neither of them saw a women watching them from a distance. She reached into her purse and pulled out her phone. She quickly typed a text and sent it.
'Better get back here quickly. Miz is already making a move.'
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
He didn't even flinch when he heard the gates close behind him. Instead, he looked up at the blue sky and took several deep breaths of air. He began walking away from the prison, refusing to look over his shoulder. Rather he concentrated on the man leaning against a car, obviously waiting for him.
As he approached the man, he made a silent vow he was never going back to prison. A couple of days in the local jail, he could handle with no problem. But never again would he serve another day in prison. He'd put a bullet in his head first.
He stopped in front of the man leaning against the car and stared at him. It had been five years since they'd seen one another, and each man noticed the changes in the other.
"I owe you," he finally said.
"Brothers don't keep score. Remember? C'mere."
Jon Moxley stepped into the arms of his brother from another mother. "Damn, it's good to be out of there. Thanks, Roman."
Roman Reigns tightly squeezed his brother then stepped back. "Once the arresting officer was convinced to admit he'd tampered with the evidence and the head of the crime lab convinced to admit he'd falsified the DNA evidence, it wasn't hard to convince the District Attorney to have the DNA retested. Once the results showed the DNA at the murder scene wasn't yours, they didn't have a choice but to vacate your conviction." He glanced around. "Let's go. I managed to keep a lid on when you'd be released, but it won't take long for the media to figure it out and show up."
Moxley nodded and put the box of his few belongings into the trunk of Roman's Lincoln. The two men then got into the car, and Roman drove them away from the prison.
Moxley refused to look back. Instead, he relaxed in the comfortable seat and asked, "They match the DNA?"
Roman nodded. "Guy named Bray Wyatt. Nobody's seen him around since about the time you were arrested."
Moxley grunted.
"Your lawsuit, by the way, is all but settled. I hope you're okay with eight million dollars," Roman grinned.
Moxley eyed his brother from the corner of his eye. "Eight million? Seems like a lot."
"They took five years of your life, Jon," Roman angrily snarled. "Five fucking years!" He took a deep breath.
"I know. I was there."
Roman forced himself to relax. "Sorry," he muttered. "Just makes me furious. Five years that I couldn't get you out."
"You did the best you could," Moxley interrupted. "Took time to get whatever it was that 'convinced' that cop and DNA guy to confess what they'd done."
"Yeah, well, their asses will be sitting in prison," Roman muttered.
"Good."
They rode in silence for a while as Roman drove the secondary roads to avoid any news trucks heading towards the prison.
"How's the family?"
Roman grinned. "All good, brother. They're down in Florida. Ever since my dad died, things haven't been well back in Davenport. Things need to be cleaned up, and I don't want them involved."
Moxley nodded. He knew Sika Reigns had more connections than anyone officially would admit. Roman's family would be protected.
"Oh, remember old man Rollins?"
Moxley barked out a laugh. "How could I forget that bookstore? I would never have gotten out of high school without that back corner and all those reference books."
"Yeah, he died. Funeral was today. His nephew or great-nephew maybe was coming back for the funeral."
"Kid left for college and never came back," Moxley shrugged.
"Sometimes he treated us kids better than he treated Seth," Roman quietly remarked. "For some reason, he and Dad had some connection so I was around a little more than you were. I don't remember him ever saying a kind word to him. Didn't go to Seth's college graduation either."
"Hate to see that place close," Moxley admitted.
"Rollins told me he was putting it in his will that if Seth didn't want to keep the place, I got first option to buy," Roman admitted. "Either way things are going to get messy."
"Why?"
"Remember Miz?" Roman grinned when Moxley began cursing. "Yeah, he kept trying to buy it from Rollins until Rollins finally threw him out and told him never to come back. I got a text while waiting on you that Miz was talking with Seth at the cemetery." He shook his head at Miz's actions.
"And then Rollins died? Think Miz had something to do with it?"
Roman shook his head. "Rollins had a bad heart and was on a ton of medication for it." He glanced at the other man. "His heart gave out while he was asleep so there was an autopsy done. I had it checked. Natural causes."
Moxley nodded. John Rollins had been good to him. He would've hated if the old man had been murdered. "So, what's the problem? You can handle Miz."
Roman grinned. "It's who's backing Miz that's going to make it messy. Look, we're gonna hit the highway in soon. Figure out what you want to eat, and we'll grab something."
"Just run through a drive-thru," Moxley shrugged. "I'd rather not run into anyone if the news has hit that I'm out."
"Good enough," Roman nodded. "We can order pizza when we get back to my place." He masked a smile at the eager look on his brother's face.