It takes about twenty minutes to review all the paperwork. Bonita comes in as I sign and notarizes where appropriate. When it’s done, she slips out and I stand, a folder in hand with my copies of the trust paperwork.
“One more thing,” Harlow says as she rises from her chair. “Your brother journaled, and he kept several notebooks over the years, especially the last few. He specifically wanted me to make sure you got them. That you read them.”
I stare at her, trying not to let those words penetrate. Because I’ve already confronted enough ghosts for today.
“They’re in his bedroom. In his closet.”
She stares at me, and I’m wondering if she’s waiting on me to agree to read them.
Not fucking doing that.
“Thanks for all your help,” I say politely. “I appreciate it.”
Harlow’s green eyes darken with sadness, but she simply nods. I pivot and walk out of her office, glad to be done with this but a little unsettled that my dealings with her are finished. She’s the closest thing I’ve got to Brooks.
I shrug it off and stop by Bonita’s desk. She has the Hepplewhite in the conference room, so I take it off her hands, along with the broken leg. I’ll drop it by the restoration place and pay them. I’ll also make arrangements to have it delivered back, and then my business will be officially concluded with Harlow Alston, Esquire.
CHAPTER 9
Harlow
I’m a trust-fund kid, and I own it. I’ve had the privilege of growing up in Pittsburgh’s East End in a historic mansion built in 1924 by my great-great-grandfather, the original founder of the Alston Law Group. It’s a gorgeous French Normandy-style Tudor sitting on a rare lot of over an acre on Beechwood Boulevard. The grandeur of Juliet balconies, arched windows with leaded, mullion windows, and vaulted ceilings make it a work of art in and of itself.
The grounds are magical with trimmed hedge paths and pockets of spring and summer blooming cottage gardens hidden throughout. Currently, it’s covered in snow, and Odin is romping around in it with my parents’ two Berners, Loki and Freya, while I stand on the back patio to watch. The property isn’t fenced, and while they’re highly obedient when called, we don’t want to take the chance they’ll run off chasing some squirrel.
The house, just over nine thousand square feet, has been passed down through the family, and my parents still happily live here, even though it’s far too big for them. Mom keeps telling me that she wants lots of room for the grandchildren that are sure to be coming. As to who will live here after they pass on—me or Brian—my parents joke it’s the first to get married and have kids. Brian and I cringe every time they mention it, because neither of us is ready for that. I’m too busy with my career, and my brother is too busy being a playboy in Europe. He’s been unofficially known as “the wonder” since he showed no interest in pursuing a legal career or producing heirs, as in we all wonder what the hell he’ll do with his life.
Personally, I admire Brian for forging his own path, even though he’s a little shiftless and lazy and content to just play with his trust money. But he’s a good man, and we all figure he’ll mature one day.
My mom, Celia, opens the back door. At fifty-eight, she’s a great beauty, which makes me happy when people say that I look just like her. She’s also a lawyer—she and my father met in law school—but she hasn’t practiced in years, content to be a stay-at-home mom as we were growing up and then doing charitable work.
“Dinner’s ready, honey,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest to ward off the cold.
I whistle for the dogs, and all three heads pop up and look my way. “Let’s go. Dinnertime!”
All three black beasts know the word dinner, and they come hurtling toward me across the yard, snow flying and their tongues lolling in anticipation. They barrel past me toward the open door where my mom stands, now with a towel in hand that she keeps in a basket just inside.
She utters one word. “Halt.”
The dogs skid to a stop and patiently wait for her to wipe the wet snow off their feet before they walk on the polished hardwoods.
“Dog whisperer,” I joke as I come in after them, shutting the door. Mom has always had the best touch with our family dogs, and she even helped me train Odin. For the longest time, she enjoyed doing versatile activities with our dogs, such as carting and herding, but she’s so busy working with her favorite charities, she doesn’t have the time anymore.
My dad, Robert, is at the dining table when we walk in, taking his place at the head. He’s only sixty-two, but his hair is already streaked iron gray with silver at the temples… something that happens prematurely in our family. I have a theory that’s why Brian is partying his brains out and living the high life. He wants to take advantage before he goes gray because he’s slightly vain.