people are already gathered in the library. A large room full of books and dark polished wood. Every eye in the room looks our way. Some curious, some speculative. None of them particularly welcoming.
“Close the doors,” says an elegant elderly woman with short white hair, sitting in a chair that’s only marginally smaller and less grand than a throne. Her gaze fixes on me and she frowns. Pale fingers tighten around the ornate silver head of the walking stick she’s holding. “Hurry up. Sit down so we can get started.”
Beck closes the double doors as ordered before guiding me toward the only empty chair in the room, a leather wingback. I take the seat while he perches on the arm. Several people give me side-eye. I sit back as far into the seat as possible, hiding from the light of day. Or at least their piercing gazes. Mom once wrangled me an invitation to a neighbor’s party when I was eight. Neither the birthday boy nor his friends wanted me there and they were not shy about letting it be known. That’s sort of what this feels like. I worked two jobs during college. But I bet no one here has ever experienced money problems. I am so out of my depth. Also, I should have worn more deodorant because nerves.
A man in a three-piece suit sits behind the desk. He shuffles some papers and clears his throat. “Shall I begin?”
The elderly lady nods in a regal manner.
“This is the last will and testament of Jack William Elliot Junior. This document revokes all wills and other testamentary dispositions that I have previously made. Mr. Rahul Nair Esquire is hereby appointed as executor—”
“Just give us the basics, Rahul,” she interrupts. “I don’t want to be here all day.”
Rahul’s lips tighten at the order. “All of my shares in Elliot Industries are to be divided equally between my four children, Ethan, Emma, Beck, and Henry. My youngest son’s interests will be controlled by my eldest son, Ethan, until Henry is twenty-one years of age.”
A woman gasps. She’s around forty and wearing a formfitting black suit. I’ve never met a supermodel, but she could probably be one. “But what about me? I’m Henry’s mother, for heaven’s sake!”
The lawyer shuffles through the paperwork for a moment before finding the relevant information. “To my wife, Giada, I leave the Bertram Street residence and twenty-million dollars. A fund to continue paying staff wages and to maintain the residence and grounds has been established. The fund will remain in force for as long as the residence remains in the family.”
“Is that all?” Beige manicured nails dig into the shoulder of a teenage boy beside her. He winces, wriggling out from beneath her grip. “It can’t be. I can’t possibly be expected to live on just that.”
At this, someone snorts. I don’t see who.
“Forced to stay in that horrible museum for the rest of my life. I won’t do it!”
“Continue please, Rahul,” says the old lady, ignoring the drama.
“Yes, Mrs. Elliot,” he answers. “The cottage on Cape Cod goes to my ex-wife, Rachel, along with my apologies. You were right, I was an ass.”
A stylish middle-aged blonde laughs at this, before quietly sighing. “Yes, you were.”
“Apart from the established trust funds for the grandchildren and some smaller bequests to longtime staff members and other various donations, that’s basically it,” says the lawyer. “The rest of his belongings and properties are to go to the four children. Any unwanted items are to be sold at auction with the proceeds to be divided equally among them.”
Through all of this, Beck sits perfectly still. He might as well be a statue. His posture is perfect, the expression on his face set. Whatever he’s thinking or feeling is buried deep.
A different woman, who was seated beside Ethan, rises to her feet with a smile. She’s early to midthirties at a guess. “All of the years of bullshit and manipulations and he does this. Just breaks the pie into four easy pieces. Fuck me.”
The elderly lady, Mrs. Elliot, knocks her walking stick against the floor twice. “Language, Emma.”
“Sorry, Grandmother. But seriously…you have to see the joke in all of this.”
“It’s no joke,” cries Giada. Tears are making tracks through her heavy makeup. Can’t help but feel that it has more to do with her bank balance than burying her husband.
“If you honestly can’t survive on twenty-million cash and real estate worth at least twice that then I guess it’s time to go back