Scrubbing my hands over my face, I give her a tortured look. “I don’t know. My ego wants to tell her to give it all away. But I’m curious about the personal things he left me that she mentioned. I think my first order of business, though, is to figure out how to repair her chair.”

  “Assuming it can be fixed,” she points out.

  “Yeah, assuming,” I mumble.

  “Start googling,” she advises and pops up from the chair. “I’ll finish dinner.”

  “I need to make a call first.”

  Bethany hums a tune while I slide my phone from my pocket and pull up one of the attorney’s emails. Her phone number is linked at the bottom, and I use it to call her office.

  I recognize the receptionist’s voice when she answers. “Law offices of Harlow Alston, this is Bonita. How may I help you?”

  “Um… yeah, this is Stone Dumelin.” I cut a glance to Bethany, intently mashing potatoes, although I know she’s listening.

  “Ah,” Bonita murmurs with exaggerated recognition. “Breaker of chairs and potential dog food.”

  I tamp down my temper—I probably deserved that. I mean, it’s totally disrespectful to a potential client, but somehow I doubt Harlow Alston would fire her for impertinence.

  “I need to make an appointment with Ms. Alston,” I say, my tone polite, which is really hard because anything dealing with my brother’s death induces a simmering irritation.

  “Of course, you do,” she says merrily, and I hear her clacking away on her keyboard. “I know how busy you are, Mr. Dumelin. What’s convenient for you and your game schedule?”

  I wasn’t expecting that level of consideration, given that I pretty much barreled past her into her boss’s office.

  “I have a home game tomorrow, so that’s out. Friday, we’ll have a mid-morning meeting and light skate, so I could do Friday afternoon, if she’s available.”

  “Hmm.” More clacking on her keyboard. “She can see you at three p.m., if that works.”

  “That works.”

  “Dress warm,” she says.

  I blink in surprise. “Excuse me?”

  “It’s going to snow, and she likes to have fun with her clients. She insists on making snow angels out on the sidewalk.”

  Pulling the phone away from my ear, I stare stupidly at it before putting it back. “Snow angels?”

  “Just kidding,” she chirps, laughing at my bewilderment. “But I know she wants to take you to your brother’s condo, which is only a few blocks away, so it’s easier to walk. In other words, wear something you can walk through the snow in.”

  “Um, okay.” I still have that feeling like I’m in the Twilight Zone with this woman, a bit on edge she might spring something else weird on me. But then I remember something more important. “The chair.”

  “Ah, yes,” she says, voice dropping low in sorrow. “Poor chair. Poor Harlow, her legacy destroyed.”

  I wince, not knowing if she’s exaggerating the personal loss. “I’d like to have it fixed.”

  “That’s wonderful!” she exclaims joyfully. “I’ll call up Mr. Hepplewhite to let him know and… oh, wait… he died in 1768.”

  “Now listen, lady,” I growl.

  “Hourglass Restoration,” she cuts in over me.

  “Hourglass Restoration,” I repeat, it dawning on me that’s the name of the company that does such things.

  “I did some research yesterday after you left.”

  I take that to mean she’s got the repairs well in hand, and it would be very easy for me to direct her to send me the bill. But while my guilt-riddled conscience would never let me take any affirmative steps toward reaching out to my brother, it’s pushing me to do something more than just pay for the Hepplewhite’s damage.

  “I’ll take the chair with me on Friday and handle the repairs.”

  The woman seems dumbstruck, because she doesn’t say anything. The silence is so extended, I say, “Are you there?”

  “Yes, sorry… had to pick my jaw up off the floor.”

  I roll my eyes, and I have a feeling I’ve awoken her inner sarcasm monster, and it’s not going into hiding with me. “See you Friday at three,” I mutter.

  “Can’t wait,” she quips, and I can almost envision the joy on her face in giving me a hard time. “It will be all I’ll think about until then.”

  I almost smile.

  Almost.

  Instead, I just hang up.

  CHAPTER 7

  Harlow

  Glancing down at my laptop clock, I note that it’s getting close to three. I’m drafting a Complaint against a slumlord who refuses to fix the heating units in several apartments, asking the court to grant immediate relief. In other words, tell the landlord to get off his cheap ass and give these people some heat.

  Three of the families just hired me today, and I’ve been researching and working on nothing but this case since. I’ll have Bonita run over to the courthouse to file the Complaint, and I’ve asked the court to set a hearing for Monday. I hate that I can’t do anything until then, but the justice system closes down on weekends.

  I save the Complaint and shoot it over to Bonita via email with instructions to get the accompanying documents and filing fee ready. She’ll have it for me to sign on my way out the door to show Stone the condo Brooks left him. No matter what he decides to do—keep the properties or give them to charity—those will require the most work, and I want to start on that first. Thus, the reason I want him to see the condo today.

  Bending over, I rub my hand along Odin’s hip as he snoozes. It wakes him, and he stretches his legs, lifting his head to give me a bleary but lopsided loll of the tongue, which I equate to a smile.

  “You going to be good and not eat Mr. Dumelin today?” I ask him.

  He pants happily as I scratch his butt, then lets his head flop back down.

  The intercom on my phone buzzes, and I tap the button. Bonita’s voice rings clear. “Your three o’clock, Mr. Dumelin, is here.”

  “Send him in,” I reply, and she disconnects.

  I stand from my chair, tugging down the hem of my Fair Isle sweater I wore today over fitted jeans. Because I knew it was going to snow, I have on a pair of weatherproof boots with shearling inside.

  My office door opens, and Stone Dumelin walks in. Bonita had called him a hottie, but I couldn’t appreciate any of it. But as I take him in—walking calmly rather than stomping—I can definitely see the resemblance to Brooks. Same dark-golden hair that somehow looks sun-streaked, longish all over and messy in a styled looking way. They definitely share the same hazel eyes that are on the lighter side, and the propensity to not shave. He’s got a good three days’ growth on his face, which he wears very, very well, but I don’t think it’s intentional. He doesn’t seem the type who gives a shit what he looks like. Overall, it’s a gruff, masculine aura he presents, but whereas Brooks always had a perpetual light in his eyes, Stone’s seem a little dead.

  Walking around my desk, I hold out my hand. “I’m glad you came back.”

  As we shake, his eyes cut to my left. I glance back to see that Odin has risen and is staring intently at Stone. He’s not growling, and his ears aren’t pinned back, but he radiates a little hostility, if I’m reading my dog right.

  “He won’t hurt you.” My attempt to reassure Stone is met with a skeptical look as our hands separate.

  Damn, his eyes really are pretty up close. Lighter than Brooks’s were, and I swear, his lashes are downright thicker.

  “Have a seat,” I say, motioning to the two placeholder chairs Bonita brought in from the small conference room. I have no clue what she did with my Hepplewhite pair, but she said she’d take care of finding the best repair place.

  Stone glances at the new seating before giving me what appears to be an earnest look of apology. “I didn’t mean to break your chair. I’ve arranged with your receptionist to take it with me today, and I’ve found a good place that will restore it.”

  I blink in surprise. Bonita hadn’t said a word to me about it, and it’s far more than I expected from him. I didn’t even expect an apology, to be honest. I don’t think Stone is inherently a dick, but whatever his emotional malfunctions, he’s clearly acting out poorly. I decide to give him a little grace.

  “Thank you,” I reply as I step back around my desk to sit. Odin moves to my side, lowers his haunches to the floor, and keeps his eyes pinned on Stone. He’s never acted this way with anyone, and the only thing I can assume is that the negative impression Stone made earlier this week has lasted.

  Settling into one of the chairs, Stone gives Odin another wary glance.

  Ready for this meeting, I pick up a sheaf of papers I’d prepared—the contents of the trust, the will, as well as a listing of all assets—and hand them across the desk. Stone leans forward and takes them.

  “I thought we’d go through the trust first, and I’ll explain it as we go along.” I pick up an identical copy of what I just handed him, prepared to translate the legalese into layman’s terms.

  “Let’s not,” Stone says, settling the documents on his lap. “How about you give me the short version instead?”

  “Um, okay,” I reply with uncertainty. I mean… I don’t have to make sure he understands this stuff. He’s not my client. Neither was Brooks, for that matter. I’m merely the trustee, which is technically a position not meant to interpret the trust or give advice about it.

  So, I boil it down for him in practical terms. “Your brother put all his assets into this trust so that when he died, it would not have to go through probate within the courts. This includes not only personal and real property, but life insurance, checking and savings accounts, and his IRAs. The rough value of everything, including the fair market value of the two homes, is close to twelve million dollars. He has named you the sole beneficiary of the trust, but with specific bequeaths in his will for your parents.”

  “Which are…?” he prompts.

  “He would like them to receive five hundred thousand dollars to do with as they wish, along with a small stipend of a thousand dollars a year to each parent on their birthdays until their deaths. The remainder goes to you. There is more than enough in the liquid assets to make that transfer as soon as we can move money into your accounts.”

  Stone frowns as his elbow goes to the armrest. He rubs at his stubbled jaw, gaze moving out the window as he ponders. When he looks back to me, he says, “In the grand scheme of his net worth, my parents aren’t getting much. That doesn’t seem like something Brooks would do… cut them out like that.”

  “With all due respect,” I say softly, “it’s exactly something your brother would have done.”

  Stone’s scowl deepens. “With all due respect to you, how would you know? You’re just his attorney.”

  “I’m not his attorney.” I lean back in my chair, cross one leg over the other, and reach an arm out to scratch Odin’s neck. “He asked a personal favor of me to be the trustee. My job is to get everything distributed and then close it down.”

  “But that’s what an attorney does,” he insists.

  “Some do, yes. But in this instance, Brooks asked this of me personally, outside of my scope as an attorney. You don’t have to be an attorney to be a trustee. In fact, it’s a pain in the ass to do all this, especially dealing with wily family members. But I wouldn’t ever deny him this favor.”

  A pang of grief hits me. I loved Brooks—he was one of my best friends—and I wouldn’t have ever thought to refuse this assignment, even if he didn’t have the guts to ask me to do it while he was alive.

  “So, essentially, Brooks left me everything but five hundred thousand and a small yearly stipend to my parents.”

  “Correct.”

  “Your letter implied he left me some personal items that you had to give me.” His voice is almost apprehensive, as if said personal items might be a rattlesnake poised to strike.

  I nod. “It’s best if we go to his condo as that’s where the personal items are. I need to show you the unit, too, so you can determine if you want to live there or sell it.”

  “I don’t want to live there.” His denial is too swift to give it merit, but I don’t argue. I’m going to let him make his own decisions. As of now, I’ve pretty much accomplished what Brooks really wanted me to do.

  Or, at least once we get to the condo, I’ll pretty much have fulfilled my obligation. What Stone does with it is up to him.

  “Up for taking a walk?” I ask, rising from my desk. “It’s about three blocks from here.”

  Stone nods as he stands. “Bonita told me we’d be walking there.”

  “I like walking in the snow. So does Odin.”

  I grab my dog’s collar and leash off a hook on the wall, and Odin prances happily, knowing a walk is on the horizon.

  “What type of dog is that?” Stone asks, his tone grumpy and telling me he hasn’t forgotten Odin’s disdain for him.

  “A Bernese Mountain Dog. We’ve always had them in our family, but Odin is the first one I’ve had all to myself. He’s three years old.”

  I fasten Odin’s collar and clip on the leash, turning toward Stone and bringing my dog to heel on my left.

  “Are they all so vicious?” Stone asks, glaring suspiciously at Odin.

  “He’s not vicious at all, and neither is the breed. He’s a gentle giant.”

  “With big fangs and a deep growl,” Stone reminds me.

  “Only toward jerks who storm into his space uninvited.”

  I receive a dismissive snort, and Stone steps back, giving me room to precede him out of my office. He’s sending the clear message he’s not about to let the dog walk behind him, not trusting me or Odin.

  Which is fine.

  In the lobby, I stop a moment at Bonita’s desk as she has the documents for the lawsuit we’ll be filing. Odin sits obediently while I give a quick flourishing signature where necessary. As I push them back across the desk, she hands me the keys to Brooks’s condo. I’ve had her keep them in our small safe built into the credenza behind her chair.

  Stone never took off his coat, but I take a moment to grab my heavy parka hanging from the coatrack and slip on my gloves.

  Once we’re outside, Odin goes back on my left and Stone walks on my right. The snow has lightened some, but it’s still coming down and completely covers the sidewalk. The sky is gray and overcast, but there’s little wind blowing.

  As would be expected of a mountain dog, Odin is in his element. He’d lie outside in the snow for hours if I let him. He walks obediently at my side, head down and nose plowing through the powder. He pauses once to pee on a trash can, but for the most part, we keep a solid pace as we head west from my office.

  “This is a nice area of Pittsburgh,” Stone says offhandedly.

  “It’s called Allegheny West.” We stroll along, not many people out in the snow, but traffic is steady. “It used to be the premier neighborhood for the wealthy elite back in the late nineteenth century. It went into disrepair between the two World Wars, and then about fifty years ago, a huge restoration project started. I love the Victorian architecture here.”

  Stone doesn’t reply, and we’re silent again until we hang a right three blocks down and then walk another half block to Brooks’s building.

  “This is modern,” Stone says as he takes it in.

  “It’s a converted warehouse, definitely not Victorian.” I give him a moment to check out the red-brick exterior with black trim on the windows and doors. “It’s a smaller warehouse that was converted into five luxury condo units—the first floor, double-car garages for each home and the second and third floors, the living spaces. Above each garage unit is a balcony that exits off the main living room for each condo, so if you’re friendly with your neighbors, it’s nice to sit outside and talk over an evening cocktail or morning coffee. You have outdoor space on the roof as well.

  “There’re three units on this side and two larger ones on the other side.” I lead Stone to the bottom entrance lobby, which is nothing more than a locked foyer with wide-plank hardwood floors and the unit mailboxes. There’s a staircase that leads up one floor to the main hallway where the five units are accessed, as well as a refurbished freight elevator.

  “The key to the condo opens the foyer door as well,” I explain.

  I start toward the stairs, Odin at my side when Stone says, “You’re just going to take the dog into Brooks’s house?”

  “Odin’s been in there many times before, and your brother never had a problem with it.”

  “But maybe I do,” he grouses.

  “Fine.” I shrug, because I don’t need to go inside with him. I toss the keys and nod up the stairs. “It’s unit four. Alarm code is 3985.”

  Stone catches the keys easily and stares down at them. “Of course, he’d pick that number.”

  “Pardon?”

  He looks up at me, green-brown eyes turbulent. “It was our street address for our family home back in Ithaca—3985 Banks Street.”

  I nod in understanding. “That’s right. I didn’t make the connection until now.”

  “You know where we grew up?”

  I smile, leaning against the wall, Odin at a patient sit beside me. “I went there after the funeral services.”

  Stone’s eyes bug out of his head. “You were there?”

  “Yes, and I went to your parents’ home after to offer my condolences.”

  His voice is inordinately sharp. “I didn’t see you.”

  “I don’t think you were noticing much that day. It was tough on everyone, but more so on you and your parents. I wouldn’t have expected you to remember me there.”

  Our eyes lock, but I can’t read anything in his expression. His posture is stiff, and if I had to name an emotion emanating from him, it might be anger. But he gives away nothing as he moves past me and Odin up the staircase.

  “Bring the keys back to my office when you’re done,” I call after him.

  He doesn’t answer.

  CHAPTER 8