• You are not the sole beneficiary of the trust and the pour-over will, but you are by far the main recipient. This includes not only substantial savings and investments, but two homes here in Pennsylvania.
• If you do not want what your brother has left you, he has given very specific instructions that his estate be doled out to various charities. I mention this only because you told me to contact your father, but Brooks was adamant that your parents not receive anything other than some specific bequests he has made.
• Lastly, your brother has left you some personal effects that I must hand over to you in person. You can either arrange to meet me here for such transfer, or we can meet at a place of your choosing. At that time, you can sign either documents transferring the estate assets into your name or the necessary paperwork for the assets to go to charity. Whichever course you choose, you will have to sign paperwork.
• If you refuse to sign the paperwork, I will be forced to ask the court to compel you to do so, which will be a nasty affair and a complete waste of our time. Please just get off your high horse and come do the right thing.
It is my hope after you read this letter, you will call my assistant, Bonita Hernandez, and set up a mutually convenient appointment. Please do not show up and expect to be seen. Please do not walk into my office again uninvited, because I will let Odin eat you next time.
Lastly, I’d send you a bill for the broken chair, but unfortunately, you can’t put a price on an eighteenth-century Hepplewhite passed down through our family to each eldest daughter from my great-grandmother. But your gesture was somewhat thoughtful.
I smirk at those last lines. If the man has a conscience at all, that should at least prick. If he doesn’t, he’s a bigger asshole than I thought, but regardless… I just want him to accept his fate so I can get this over with.
I consider how to end the letter and decide to do it with complete formality.
In sincere appreciation of your consideration, yours truly,
Harlow Alston, Esq.
Perfectly written, if I do say so myself. I read it over one more time, save the document, and then shoot it in an email to Bonita.
Standing from my desk, I move to the reception area just as Bonita is pulling the letter up on her screen.
“I know it’s late in the day, but do you mind getting that out certified mail?” I ask.
“Don’t mind at all,” she says as she reads over the letter. I watch as she makes a few proofing changes, not bothering to ask if I agree with them. She’s far better at that stuff than I am. I’m about the substance—she’s about making it pretty.
“You know,” Bonita drawls as she spins her chair toward the printer to grab the letter. “Stone Dumelin is a hottie.”
My eyebrows jet upward. “You think?”
“Oh, come on, Harlow,” she chides, knowing I’m being intentionally obtuse. “He and Brooks look just alike, and we both know Brooks was a hottie too.”
Shrugging, I lean against her desk with my hip. “You can be the hottest thing since Stephen Amell in Arrow, but if you’re a jerk, it makes you unattractive.”
“But is he really a jerk, or is he in pain and doesn’t know how to be any other way?” she queries.
“Stop it,” I order, laughing at her immensely huge bleeding heart. She does it with all my clients, looking for that inner trauma that causes them to do the things they do. She immediately forgives them for it and fosters a loving atmosphere while they’re clients of mine.
It’s sweet sometimes, but right now, I don’t have a lot of sympathy for Stone. I’m still grieving for Brooks, and I don’t like that Stone doesn’t like Brooks.
It makes us enemies, actually.
Bonita hands me the letter and a pen, and I sign my name to it.
“Well, let’s see if that letter gets him to man up and treat us with some respect.” I turn toward my office, intent on jumping back on the Graves’ discovery, hoping that this letter will light a fire under Stone’s butt, especially now that he knows his brother left it all to him and not his parents.
CHAPTER 6
Stone
The sign on the elevator says Out of Service, and I sigh. It was leg day in the gym, and I hit it hard. Climbing six flights of stairs is doable, but given the choice between the two, I’d prefer the elevator right now.
Hefting my bag over my shoulder, I take the stairs two at a time, double-timing it just to show I can.
Not that anyone’s watching.
Pulling my keys out, I unlock the apartment door, jiggling it a bit to work past the rusted springs. I’ve put in a request to the landlord to fix it, but I’m not holding my breath.
Stepping inside, the aroma of something divine hits my nose, and I can hear Aunt Bethany humming a tune in the kitchen. She’s leaving tomorrow, having declared that I am sufficiently set up in my apartment and should be able to function without her. I may be a grown-ass man at twenty-seven, but I’m not going to lie—it’s been nice having her here.
It’s not just having her support as I settle into a new city, but she’s also been fielding my father’s calls. He’s started bugging her since I’m not responding to him. She’s often stepped in as mediator, but she hasn’t had to play that role in quite a while as it was months before Brooks died that my father and I last talked. The most recent Christmas, I stayed in Cleveland, holed up in my apartment with some brunette named Cherry, but I swear I didn’t pick her up in a bar or strip joint.
Met her at the gym, which might be just as cliché, but she was a good diversion over the holidays when I didn’t have hockey games.
Of course, I’d not been invited home by either of my parents, nor did they acknowledge me in any way. No call. No card. No gifts.
Which is fine. I didn’t do any of that either, but I knew it wasn’t expected or wanted on their end. We had come to a point in our relationship where we were virtual strangers.
Brooks was a little different. We at least communicated on Christmas. He called me and left a voicemail, wishing me happy holidays and that he’d see me at home if I was going to make it in. He knew I wouldn’t, or maybe he didn’t want to know I wouldn’t.
I didn’t call him back but sent him a text. I tried to make it as jolly as possible: Thanks for the call. Going to stay here for the holidays. Schedule too busy. Great hearing your voice.
Brooks responded with a thumbs-up emoji.
And that was the extent of our communication for Christmas.
We didn’t reach out to each other for New Year’s.
He died on February 20.
I’d saved his last voicemail, and I play it sometimes just to hear his voice. Also to punish myself for not trying harder. But sometimes, guilt doesn’t get me. It’s anger that he didn’t try harder either.
Dropping my duffel bag on the couch, I walk into the kitchen separated from the living room by a half wall. Bethany is preparing to move a heavy pot of something boiling to the sink, and I spring into action.
“Let me get that,” I say, moving in to take the potholders from her.
“Thank you,” she breathes out, stepping back as I turn to the kitchen sink and dump the potatoes into a colander already there. “What smells so good?”