Chapter 2
The man on the other side was tall, with graying hair at the temples and a black leather briefcase that looked like it had seen a hundred courtrooms. He nodded once at Claire, his face soft with sympathy, then stepped past her into the condo.
Margaret’s eyes narrowed.
“Who is this? Another one of your little friends?”
The man stopped in the middle of the dining room, set his briefcase on the table right on top of their handwritten checklist, and looked directly at her.
“I’m Marcus Hale. Ethan Walker’s estate attorney. And you are trespassing on property that does not belong to you.”
A murmur rippled through the relatives. Rachel froze mid-drawer, her hand still clutching a stack of Ethan’s bank statements. Andrew’s mouth fell open. Only Margaret held her ground, her chin lifting higher.
“Ethan had no attorney. I would have known.”
Marcus smiled, thin and cold. He flipped the latches on his briefcase and pulled out a thick stack of paper bound with a blue ribbon.
“Ethan retained me three years ago, when he first got sick. He updated his will two weeks before he died. Signed it in my office, in front of two witnesses and a notary. He was lucid. He was calm. And he knew exactly what he was doing.”
He flipped to the first page and began to read, his voice clear enough to cut through the hum of the AC.
“I, Ethan James Walker, being of sound mind and body, do hereby leave all my worldly possessions—real, personal, and financial—to my wife, Claire Marie Bennett. This includes the Back Bay condo, all bank accounts, investment portfolios, the 2.4 million dollar trust fund in my name, all vehicles, jewelry, books, and intellectual property. No provision is made for any other family member, for reasons I have documented separately.”
The room went dead silent.
Rachel dropped the bank statements. They fluttered to the floor like dead leaves. Andrew cursed under his breath and stepped away from the suitcase he’d been packing. The uncle holding the coffee maker set it down on the counter so hard the glass carafe rattled.
Margaret’s face turned the color of a ripe tomato.
“Forgery,” she spat. “You put him up to this. He was delirious from the meds. He didn’t know what he was signing.”
Marcus didn’t flinch. He pulled a tablet from his briefcase and tapped the screen. A video started playing. There was Ethan, thinner than Claire remembered, his face pale, but his eyes sharp and clear. He was sitting in Marcus’s office, a pen in his hand.
“I’m doing this of my own free will,” he said, looking straight into the camera. “No one has pressured me. My wife, Claire, is the only person who ever loved me for who I was, not what I had. My family has never cared about anything but my money. They will try to take it from her when I’m gone. This will stops them.”
He signed the paper. The witnesses signed. The notary stamped it.
The video ended.
Margaret was shaking now. Her hands curled into fists at her sides.
“That’s not fair. I’m his mother. I carried him for nine months. I raised him. You can’t leave me with nothing.”
“Ethan felt you were already provided for,” Marcus said evenly. “He paid off your mortgage three years ago. He covered your medical bills. He sent your daughter to college. He did more than his share. And he knew you would try to take more.”
He pulled another paper from the briefcase and held it up.
“This is a court order, signed this morning. It gives Claire exclusive access to this property. All of you have thirty minutes to gather your own personal belongings and leave. Anything that belongs to Ethan stays. If you take one thing that isn’t yours, I will file theft charges before you reach the elevator.”
He glanced at his watch.
“Your time starts now.”
Chaos erupted.
The relatives scrambled for their purses and jackets, tripping over each other to get to the door. The nephews dropped the boxes they’d been carrying. Rachel stuffed her own notebook into her bag and left Ethan’s files scattered across the desk. The uncle muttered apologies to Claire as he followed the others out.
Only Margaret stayed.
She stood there, staring at Claire, her eyes burning with hatred so thick you could almost taste it.
“This isn’t over,” she said, her voice low and dangerous. “You think a piece of paper wins? I’ve got friends in this city. I’ve got family. I will ruin you. I will take everything you have, and I will make sure you end up on the street where you belong.”
Claire didn’t look away.
“Ethan knew you’d say that too.”
Margaret’s lip curled. She turned on her heel and marched out, slamming the door so hard the pictures on the wall shook.
Silence fell.
Claire stood in the middle of the mess, her legs suddenly weak. Marcus closed his briefcase and walked over to her, his voice gentle now.
“You okay?”
She nodded, though her hands were shaking so hard she could barely make a fist.
“He really planned for all of this?”
“Every last detail,” Marcus said. “He knew they’d show up today. He told me to be here at three o’clock sharp, right after the funeral. He said you’d need backup.”
He handed her the full stack of documents.
“All of this is yours. The trust pays out monthly. The condo is free and clear. I’ll handle the legal side if they try to fight it. Ethan left fifty thousand specifically for legal fees. He said to spare no expense.”
He paused.
“There’s one more thing. He told me to tell you to check the bottom drawer of his desk. The one with the false bottom. He said you’d know what it means.”
Claire’s throat tightened. She remembered that drawer. Ethan had shown it to her once, years before, when they first moved in. He’d said it was for emergencies only.
Marcus left after giving her his personal cell number, telling her to call day or night.
Claire locked the door behind him. She slid the deadbolt home, then leaned against the wood, her eyes closed. The condo smelled like lilies and old paper and Ethan’s cologne, faint but still there.
She walked slowly to the desk. The mess the relatives had made was everywhere—open drawers, scattered papers, his clothes dumped out of suitcases onto the sofa. She ignored it. She knelt down and pulled open the bottom drawer.
It looked empty at first. Just a stack of old tax returns. But when she pressed the back left corner, a panel clicked open.
May you like
Inside was a thick manila envelope, sealed with wax. Written on the front in Ethan’s messy, familiar handwriting was: For my Claire. Only if they come for you.
Her hands shook as she broke the seal. She pulled out the letter, sat down on the floor right there, and began to read.
