was going to have to move Siegfried. Touch dead Siegfried.
She modified her search to “How to dispose of a dead turtle without throwing up.”
DECEMBER TWENTY-SECOND
FOUR Eileen
The Law Offices of Knutsen & Crowley | 218 Avenue B #5
December 18, 2020
Dear Ms. Sullivan,
I represented your uncle, Patrick Enright, in life, and as of his passing one week ago, I serve as the executor of his will. Mr. Enright has informed me that this will come as a surprise, but he left behind the majority of his estate to you and your sisters. This estate is to be divided in equal thirds and bequeathed to each of you upon your respective eighteenth birthdays.
Since you are the first Sullivan sister to reach the age of majority, I am writing to request you make an appointment at my office, during which time I will go over the terms of the late Mr. Enright’s will and address any questions you may have. You are welcome to bring your own attorney, should you desire. I look forward to making your acquaintance.
Sincerely,
William J. Knutsen
Eileen looked up from the letter in her hand. She was facing 218 Avenue B, listening to Mariah Carey on holiday radio. Vigorously, she chewed four pieces of Dubble Bubble.
She hated this song.
But she wasn’t sure she could get out of the van.
“Shit,” she said to the steering wheel.
She welcomed the gum’s ephemeral sugar rush. Not alcohol, maybe, but like it—necessary for short-time existence, detrimental to long-term well-being.
It was misting outside, and rain had puddled in the parking lot, iridescent with gasoline and who knew what other crap. Eileen hadn’t known what to expect from William J. Knutsen. This eyesore of an office sure wasn’t it. A town as small as Emmet didn’t exactly have right and wrong sides of the track; nearly every house was run-down, the strip malls grimy. This place was especially both those things: a tan-brick shopping center that hadn’t been updated since the start of the new millennium. Half the storefronts were empty, their windows papered up, with FOR LEASE signs left on the doors like despairing afterthoughts. Wedged between two of these storefronts were the law offices of Knutsen and Crowley. A rusted plaque by the glass double doors told Eileen so, and in case she had any remaining doubts, a banner strung overhead shouted, TROUBLE WITH THE LAW? BILL CAN HELP. Beside the words was an illustration of a green bird breaking free from a birdcage prison cell.
It seemed like a scam.
But then, scams weren’t supposed to seem like scams. This place was so scammy, it had to be legitimate.
Wasn’t that how it worked?
Eileen hadn’t known there was a law office in Emmet, period. She’d assumed that town residents in need of legal assistance looked for it farther afield, in an actual city, like Eugene. This place was a shock.
As was the fact that she had inherited a third of her uncle’s estate.
As was the fact that she had an uncle.
Patrick Enright.
What the hell.
Eileen ran her thumb along the letter’s edge, studying its very fibers for signs of fraud.
Meanwhile, Mariah crooned about what she wanted for Christmas.
Eileen knew the responsible thing to do: wait until Mom was back from the cruise, show her the letter, and ask point-blank about its contents. Who said Eileen was responsible, though? And who said Mom was up for a heart-to-heart? Eileen hadn’t had a real talk with her mother for the past four, maybe five years. These days Mom was in one of two places: the Walgreens on Fourth Avenue or inside her locked bedroom, the television’s murmur at war with her snores. One place she was not: Eileen’s life.
No. After last night’s revelation, Eileen had decided the best thing to do was go straight to the source: Mr. Knutsen himself. She wanted to see the man in person. First, to be sure this law office existed. Second, because she wanted immediate answers, to her face. Worst-case scenario, this was a scam, and she’d bolt. But best-case?
Goddamn. Best-case, she had family—albeit dead family. And maybe that family had an explanation—a different explanation for the letters she’d uncovered two years ago. That could change everything.
Eileen sure as hell wanted things to change.
The gum had lost its flavor. Eileen spat it into her hand and formed a glistening ball, which she dropped into the cup holder. Claire would call her disgusting, but this wasn’t Claire’s car. And this wasn’t Claire’s letter to deal with. The task fell solely to Eileen.