Something in me went very still.
Not shattered.
Not frantic.
Just cold.
Then a clear ringing sound cut through the room.
Ting. Ting. Ting.
Harold Brennan, the family’s longtime attorney, stood near the entry to the study, tapping a spoon against a champagne flute with practiced authority.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced, smile thin, “if I could have your attention. Mrs. Morrison has requested a private family convening to review Colonel Andrew Morrison’s last will and testament.”
Samantha turned her head slowly toward me, expression almost pleased.
“Cecilia,” she said, voice sweet in the way venom can be sweet, “you come too. You’re not included, obviously, but we need a witness.”
She adjusted her glove and added, casual as ordering coffee, “Harold has paperwork for you to sign. A non-disclosure agreement. And a notice. You’ll be out of the house by tonight.”
My fingers pressed once against my breast pocket, feeling the crinkle of paper and the hard edge beneath the fabric.
I stepped away from the wall.
I followed them into the study without a word.
The doors closed behind us with a soft click that sounded, to my trained ear, like the start of something irreversible.
The study smelled like old leather, lemon polish, and power that had gone stale.
Heavy mahogany shelves climbed the walls, packed with leather-bound volumes no one had opened in decades. Andrew’s desk dominated the room, wide and scarred, the surface cleared for the occasion like an altar prepared for sacrifice.
The curtains were drawn halfway, muting the gray afternoon light and casting everything in a yellowed glow that made the room feel sealed off from the rest of the house.
Harold Brennan settled into Andrew’s chair without hesitation.
That alone told me everything I needed to know.
He placed his alligator-skin briefcase on the blotter and snapped it open with two precise clicks. The sound reminded me of weapons being unholstered. Samantha took the seat to his right, perfectly composed, crossing one leg over the other as if this were a board meeting.
Mark leaned against the wall, arms folded, jaw tight with anticipation. Danielle perched on the arm of a chair, scrolling through her phone with a bored flick of her thumb.
Justin stood closest to me, not quite beside me, not quite away from me. Close enough to feel my presence. Far enough to pretend he didn’t have to choose.
Harold cleared his throat.
“Let’s make this efficient,” he said, drawing out a crisp white document. “We’re all emotionally exhausted.”
Leave a Comment