I save the draft answers to interrogatories for the Graves’ case and exit out of it. I pull up the template letterhead in Word, prepared to start my letter to Stone Dumelin.

  I type in bold letters, all caps: VIA CERTIFIED MAIL, RETURN RECEIPT REQUESTED.

  No email to Stone. I want to know he has this letter in hand so I can be assured he’s on official notice of the bequeaths made to him. What he chooses to do with that is up to him, but I’m hoping to spark enough of his interest that a future conversation might occur.

  After typing in the reference to his case, I start the letter formally: Dear Mr. Dumelin.

  It’s as far as I get before I have to lean back in my chair and think how to handle this. It calls for a bit of mental manipulation, and I’m not above that. Especially after the jerk broke my Hepplewhite.

  But I knew he’d be a jerk. At least Brooks had me convinced of that.

  Glancing down at Odin happily snoozing beside my desk, I do wonder if Stone has any good in him. Odin is a gentle dog, but his breed can be wary of strangers. Rather than hang back by my side while sizing up Stone, he went into full-on protection mode. Was that because he sensed something sinister? Brooks painted his brother in a not-so-flattering light over the last year, but nothing that would cause me concern for my safety.

  And yet Odin growled and advanced on him. He’s never done that before, and that includes getting harassed by men sometimes when we go out for a run. Usually his size is enough to keep most men a good fifteen feet back.

  “What did you sense about him?” I muse, and something in my tone brings Odin out of his sleep. He lifts his big head and tilts it, starting at me speculatively. “Is he a bad person, or have circumstances just made him extra ornery?”

  Odin chuffs—not sure if that’s an agreement with one of my options or an indication he’s as perplexed as I am, but he sets his head back down. It’s after his eyes slowly close in slumber that I lean forward in my chair and start typing.

  I always smile as I type the first few sentences of any document. My father, the esteemed Robert Frederick Alston III, current managing partner of the Alston Law Group—where my aunt Hayley works—would be appalled to see me doing my own work this way. Over at my dad’s chrome-and-steel office in the sky, there are pools of secretaries who do nothing but transcribe dictations from the attorneys. Even the younger ones who are all adept at typing their own stuff don’t bother to flex their fingers. It would be beneath their hourly billing rate to waste on typing when they could bill out legal theory and strategy.

  I guess it’s a status symbol, but I think it’s a waste of resources, especially when I can type faster than I can dictate, and I can make changes as I go along. I’m far more efficient, and I don’t bill nearly the hourly rate that my family members across the river charge.

  If I sound disapproving, trust me, I’m not. I love them all and have mad respect for their prowess. They are one of the best-regarded firms in the entire state.

  Just as they don’t disapprove of my desire to own a small firm to help more of the downtrodden than the elite rich. Sure, I get teased at get-togethers, and it’s a well-known fact that this is little more than a hobby versus a means to live. My career is immensely enjoyable because I can freely help those I want.

  At least that was the case until Stone Dumelin got dumped in my lap.

  So, dear Mr. Dumelin… listen up, asshole.

  I’m sincerely regretful our meeting today—although spontaneous and spur of the moment—was not more productive. I’m afraid you’re laboring under some deep pain and simply don’t know how to relate to the fact that you have always been on your brother’s mind, even if it hasn’t felt that way.

  There. A little tease that I know far more about his family dynamics than he could have imagined. He made reference to me handling this case for the money, and he’s so wrong about that. I’m doing this because I loved Brooks.

  Since we were not able to have a serious discussion, I’m going to outline in this letter some important key things for you to consider. It is my hope that you will want to be a willing participant in this process, but after receiving this letter, should you choose not to, I will help extricate you from any obligations.

  And here’s where I decide to give him the bare facts, so he’s forced to at least respond to me in some way. I decide good old-fashioned bullet points are the way to go for simplicity.

  • Upon his death, your brother’s trust appointed me to become his successor trustee. That means I am in charge of ensuring his estate is parceled out pursuant to his wishes. Please note that I am doing this free of charge.

  • 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?”

  “Meatloaf,” she replies, and my stomach rumbles. It’s one of my favorite comfort foods, and Bethany does a mean one. I expect she’s giving me my last taste of home cooking.

  Potatoes dumped, I put the empty pot back on the stove while Bethany pulls milk and butter from the fridge.

  She nods toward the kitchen table. “You got some mail today I had to sign for.”

  Frowning, I move that way as I shouldn’t be getting much mail at all. Just my stuff forwarded from the address change in Cleveland, but even that was only a slow trickle.

  I see the envelope with two green strips left from a certified-mail ticket that had been pulled off. I flip it over and clench my teeth as I see Harlow Alston’s name and return address in the left corner. The envelope is thin and probably contains no more than a sheet or two.

  Fuck, that woman moves fast. We just had our “exchange” yesterday when I offended her, her dog almost ate me, and I broke a piece of her furniture.

  It’s probably the bill, which I’ll gladly pay.

  I run my finger inside to open it up and pull out what is not a repair invoice but a two-page letter from Ms. Alston.

  Glancing up, I see Bethany mashing potatoes, so I take the time to read it.

  My eyes rove over the words, mostly formal but with enough bite to know she’s still pissed about yesterday.

  I start to read the bullet points, and I freeze when I make it to the second one.

  I’m the main beneficiary of Brooks’s estate?

  My head snaps up, and I look to my aunt. She catches my movement and raises an eyebrow. “What’s up?”

  “This attorney said Brooks left his estate to me,” I mutter in disbelief, and read the bullet point again. I skim the rest of the words and summarize the contents for my aunt. “He left me almost everything, including two houses here in Pennsylvania. Looks like he might have left something for my parents, but the bulk to me. The attorney says there are some personal possessions he wanted me to have. And if I don’t want to accept, he wants it to go to charity.”

  Bethany stands with the potato masher in her hand—a utensil she certainly went out and bought to stock in my kitchen as I’ve never owned one—surprise etched on her face. “Got to say, didn’t see that coming.”

  “So, it’s not just me, then,” I murmur, alluding to the fact I had no relationship with Brooks and clearly, it was obvious to other family members.

  “Your dad is going to be upset,” she says quietly, returning her attention back to her task.

  I snort, because I’m quite sure he’s assuming he and my mom are the beneficiaries.

  Hell, I assumed that.

  I expect his calls and texts will pick up in frequency, and I also expect he might even demand I hand some of it over.

  Continuing on with the letter, I get to the part where I apparently broke more than just some chair she bought at IKEA, and wince. I have no fucking clue what a Hepplewhite is, but the description eighteenth-century has me thinking it’s going to ding my savings account.

  Not a big deal. I was a smart investor when I played for the Eagles, and I’ve lived frugally as a Badger, given that my pay was nothing compared to what I made in the majors.

  “Any idea what a Hepplewhite is?” I ask Bethany.

  “Furniture,” she replies. “He was a cabinet maker in London but also made other stuff. Sort of like Chippendale, I think.”

  Now Chippendale I’ve heard of, and I know this is going to cost me big.

  “Why do you ask?”

  Pulling out a chair to the kitchen table, I sink into it with a sigh. “Remember when I came home in a bad mood yesterday?”

  “Uh-huh,” she replies with a smirk.

  She’s smirking because I snapped at her for something, and she laid into me good. It was a lot of “you need to show respect” and “don’t take it out on the one family member who supports you” and “get your head out of your ass.” She put me in my place, and I was overly solicitous the rest of the night as we watched a movie before she went off to bed in my room. I’ve been sleeping on the couch, which is horribly uncomfortable.

  “Well, I was in a bad mood yesterday because I went to see this attorney handling Brooks’s estate.”

  Bethany stops mashing, giving me her full attention.

  “It wasn’t a good meeting. I sort of stormed her office. She had a dog that wanted to rip out my throat. I kicked over a chair and broke it. Apparently, it’s a Hepplewhite.”

  “Oh, wow,” she breathes, eyes tender with commiseration, though I’m not sure if it’s for me or the Hepplewhite.

  “And apparently, it was a piece handed down through generations.”

  “Ouch,” she quips.

  “Yeah, ouch,” I agree, silently ruminating if there’s any way to make that better. But it’s not a top priority. I have to decide what to do with Brooks’s estate. “Why would Brooks leave me with everything? We weren’t close in the end. He was close to our parents.”

  “Are you sure about that?” Bethany asks, her tone suggesting she knows something I don’t.

  “I know he and I weren’t close, so I’m assuming the converse, that he was close with my parents. They’re the ones who divided us. They’re the ones who doted on him, proclaiming him the water walker of the family.”

  Bethany puts the masher in the pot and walks over to me. She pats my cheek before taking the chair to my right. “I don’t know what your parents think, as they don’t tell me anything. They know my allegiance to you. And I didn’t talk to Brooks about those sorts of things. We had a fun aunt-nephew relationship. Maybe I should’ve pushed more, but honestly, it was enough to just be there for you. However, I suspect that you and your brother were far more united than divided in relation to your parents.”

  “I don’t understand how it happened,” I grumble angrily. I want to blame my parents and Brooks, but no matter what, I’m part of the cause. I could have called him back during the Christmas holidays rather than text him.

  Maybe I should’ve tried harder. If I had, I probably wouldn’t be weighed down with this oppressive guilt now that he’s dead.

  “What are you going to do?” Bethany asks, nodding at the letter tossed onto the table.