by Karen Ranney
"God knows you don't need the money. With what you've got coming you could buy your own island, fill it up with people and have a party every night."
His father wasn't normally so brash about Breanna’s wealth.
"She could have changed her will, Dad. I haven't met with the attorney yet."
"Well, that's something I would do right away if I were you."
"I have an appointment tomorrow," he said.
“Well, good. That’s one less thing to worry about. How are you feeling?”
He didn’t know how to answer that question. Instead, he asked one of his own.
“Do you have any information on Grace Colson?”
He didn't expect the silence from his father.
“Why would you be asking about her now?” Paul finally said. “Because she called you?”
“That’s as good a reason as any. Do you have anything on her? Any documents I haven’t seen?”
“I don’t know why you’re dragging all of that up now, Derek. Your wife just died. What do you care about your birth mother?”
Paul was engaging in a classic deflection technique. If an individual didn’t want to answer a question he either abruptly changed the subject or he attacked with an entirely separate thought.
“I remember that Breanna just died, Dad. I don’t need to be reminded.”
“Well, evidently you do or you wouldn’t be involved in that shit.”
He’d pushed a button or stirred the pot, something to make Paul uncomfortable enough to hang up without saying goodbye.
7
The next morning Paul called. “I know you have an appointment with Breanna’s attorney. Do you want me to go with you?”
That was his father’s way of apologizing for yesterday. “No, Dad, but thank you.”
He didn’t need his father to accompany him. He was forty-one years old. He had an established career, a byline that people recognized, and some measure of respect as a journalist.
He was also fantastically wealthy, a discovery he made two hours later.
Sitting opposite Roger Herron, his finger traced the words of Breanna’s will as if touching them could make them any more understandable.
“Breanna told me that she’d set up a trust, that she’d apportioned the majority of her inheritance to various charities. We discussed it. She wanted to make sure it was okay with me.”
It had been. He hadn’t married her for money, had signed the prenup without hesitation. He was in love with her, not her fortune. On three separate occasions she’d brought up the disposition of her assets, wanting to make sure that he had no lingering resentment.
He had a good career, making an acceptable living. He certainly could have supported them both. When he said he would have been happy if she was poor as a church mouse she’d smiled, wrapped her arms around his neck, and kissed him.
He thought it was all settled.
“Well,” Roger said, “she must’ve changed her mind, because we redid her will two months ago. She gave the shelter and various other charities a considerable amount at that time.”
He’d known that Lionel had been close to a billionaire, but he’d assumed that some of his fortune had gone to taxes or other disbursements. He had no idea that Breanna had increased her wealth and that she was a genuine billionaire. Now he was.
“Maybe she expected you to do more charitable giving in her name. Wouldn’t that be feasible?”
Derek nodded. He was having difficulty wrapping his head around the amount, especially since Breanna had rarely discussed her money. She should have given him some kind of warning.
“Just don’t tell me I’m Susan’s trustee, too.”
“Susan?”
“Breanna’s sister.”
“Breanna didn’t have a sister. She was an only child.”
“What do you mean, Breanna was an only child? Breanna administered a trust for her sister because Susan had a drug problem.” There, his voice sounded reasonably controlled.
“Breanna didn’t administer any trust. The money came to her directly from her father, with no restrictions or codicils. I admit, it was rather unusual, given the amount, but father and daughter were very close. Lionel Adams had no reservations about leaving his daughter everything. Evidently, Breanna felt the same trust in you.”
“You’ve never heard of Susan Adams?”
“Never. It’s possible that the woman was not officially recognized, but I have some difficulty with that idea. Lionel was very careful not to produce any…” The attorney’s face reddened. “Illegitimate offspring,” he finally added.
“Susan existed. So who the hell is she?”
Roger shook his head. “I can’t help you with that, Mr. McPherson. I’ve never heard of the woman. My obligation is to ensure that Breanna’s wishes are carried out.”
Derek stood. “You’ve done that. Thank you.” He didn’t know what else to say. He thought his world was upended when Breanna had died. He didn’t realize that that was only the beginning.
He left the suite of offices without another word. At least now he knew why everyone had practically genuflected to him when he arrived. Would you like any coffee? Was he hungry? They could provide sandwiches or nibbles or a vegetable tray.
Funny, he didn’t feel any different. He wasn’t suddenly glowing because of all that money. He wasn’t lighter than air.
He remembered something Breanna had said once. “It’s a tremendous responsibility. I want to make sure that everything my father worked for isn’t wasted.”
He felt some of that responsibility now and it weighed him down. What the hell did he do with that much money? For now he would keep it all where it was. Everything he’d signed had simply transferred the ownership of all of those accounts to him. In his pocket was a check Roger had given him for discretionary items. It was five times his annual income at the paper.
Evidently, the very rich are very different.
He felt like he was coming out of his skin, like it was growing too tight and all of his organs would fall through the seam splitting down the middle of his body. Everything about his life felt wrong, in a way that couldn’t be fixed.
Even if he got the answers to the mysteries surrounding him, it wouldn’t do any good. If they caught the guy who killed Breanna what would that accomplish? It wouldn’t magically restore her to life. If Susan finally showed up and told him who she really was, so what? What did it matter in the great scheme of things?
Nothing would ease the paralyzing grief he felt.
The next morning Ellie made her daily report to the Elder, carefully leaving out what had transpired outside the coffee shop. She told herself it was because she hadn’t been certain about what she’d seen.
Mr. Woods still sounded annoyed about Derek going to Susan’s house. She could have told them that Derek was very proactive. If something didn’t make sense to him or he sniffed out some deception he was the first to check it out.
They should have done something better about the Susan situation than have her disappear without a word.
However, it was unlikely that the Elders would ever ask her advice. She was young, female, and compared to their individual — not to mention collective — talents, she was a neophyte.
She also didn’t tell them about the feeling she was getting. Something akin to a vision without seeing anything. Derek was changing, but she wasn’t sure exactly how. The feeling was difficult to describe. That’s the reason she gave herself for not telling the Elder what she’d sensed last night or felt this morning. It was like a gathering of power, like a cumulus cloud on the horizon. As it grew closer it became larger, more impressive. Darker, perhaps, and holding sparks of lightning. That’s what she sensed around Derek.
How could she possibly explain that?
“He didn’t stop anywhere else?” the Elder asked. “Didn’t speak to anyone?”
He probably knew who Derek had spoken to better than she. She didn’t doubt that the Elders could li
sten in to anyone’s phone.
“He didn’t stop anywhere else. Nor did I see him use his phone in the car, but he might have with a Bluetooth device.”
There, as honest as she could be. He didn’t ask her if she had seen anything else. If he had, she would’ve had a moral dilemma: to tell or not to tell about the word Mother on the windshield.
Thankfully, he didn’t question her further, merely told her to continue her assignment.
Derek made following him easy. He drove a large dark blue SUV that she could follow effortlessly in traffic. He didn’t go anywhere that was overwhelmed with people. Even today, when he pulled into a parking garage he didn’t go to the top but parked on the second floor. She followed him at a safe distance, but nearly lost him in the building’s lobby. She waited to see what floor the elevator went to before using the stairs. There was only one company taking up the whole of the third floor: a law firm. She saw Derek follow a woman behind a door and retraced her steps to the parking garage.
She sat there for over an hour, taking advantage of the time to practice an incantation. This one required a subject, but at least she could memorize the words. It would be embarrassing to forget the steps of a forgetfulness spell.
Twice she thought she saw Derek coming back to his car and twice ducked down. Both times she was wrong. When he did return to his car she almost missed him.
Halfway back to the Crow’s Nest she figured out that he was going home. Certain of it, she dropped back a few more cars. When he pulled off 281 she did as well, but took the precaution of staying at least half a mile behind him. Once he started up the spiral drive to his house she hung back, turning onto a side road where she often parked.
He was probably home for the day which meant that she had more time to practice her spells — and wonder what was happening in the big black house on the hill.
8
Derek pulled into the garage to find that Paul had beat him by only minutes. His father had a remote control and his own slot. He got out of his car and walked to the other side of the garage where Paul had parked the Hummer.
Breanna had given the SUV to Paul on his last birthday because she knew that it reminded Paul of his military days. Derek had objected, saying that it was too expensive. She’d only countered with a laugh and a comment. “If I can't spend my money on people I love — and their relatives — what good is it?"
Paul had been dumbstruck and grateful. So grateful that every time he saw Breanna he thanked her again for his Hummer.
The garage wasn't part of the original house, but had been built later, to store the oil tycoon’s massive car collection. From what Breanna had said, her father had ten favorites. The others were kept off-site.
He guessed that if you had that much money you had to spend it on something. Might as well be cars. The man had already endowed a couple of universities and built a cancer wing in honor of Breanna's mother.
No one could say that the oil tycoon had been a selfish man.
Hopefully, he could be as generous with the money or at least ensure that it went to good causes.
Paul had something that looked like one of his mother’s knitting bags in his hand. When they entered the house he handed it to Derek.
"This is all I could find. I still haven’t gone through all your mother’s things.”
Angie had died suddenly of an aneurism when he and Breanna were on vacation. Paul hadn’t let them know until they returned, just in time for them to attend the funeral.
Derek thanked him now as he took the satchel and put it on the bench beside the door.
“Why did you want that stuff? Are you going to meet with her?
“I don’t know. Would it bother you if I did?”
“Nope, but I don’t think it’s a smart idea. She never did anything for you.”
"She gave birth to me,” he said. "And she didn't have to do that. She also gave me up for adoption, which was a gift." He smiled at his father. "Especially with the parents I got."
He thought that his comment mellowed Paul's irritation a little, because his father smiled as he headed for the refrigerator.
"Can I take another one of those casseroles home?"
"You can empty the refrigerator. In fact, I wish you would."
Paul opened the door and stared inside. He took two dishes out and put them on the island behind him.
“Lots of people stopped by to bring you dinner.”
“I wish they wouldn’t have,” Derek said.
“People give you food because they want to do something and there’s nothing they can do. Sometimes they say things and they might not be tactful. Count your lucky stars that you have friends who say things. Most people don’t. It’s too uncomfortable for them, so they go around pretending nothing happened. It’s easier for them that way.”
“Is that what happened with Mom?”
“Yep.” He pulled another dish from the refrigerator to join the other two. “People who’d known her for years didn’t say diddly squat. They’d look the other way. It was like I was contagious or something. Maybe they thought I’d start crying in front of them.”
“I won’t cry, but I can’t possibly eat all that stuff, either.”
Paul grinned. “I’ll take it off your hands. It gives me an excuse not to have to eat PatAnn’s cooking. I’ll tell her you made me take them.”
He grabbed two more dishes and handed them to Derek. A few minutes later he helped his father carry out his bounty to the Hummer.
“So, how was the meeting with the attorney?”
“Interesting,” Derek said, curiously loath to share details about Susan. “Thanks to Brianna I’m rich.” He didn’t say how rich. He’d dole out that information a little at a time.
“Good. You can get afford to get rid of this behemoth of a house,” Paul said, climbing into the driver’s seat.
Derek didn’t bother answering. His father had never mentioned his dislike of the Crow’s Nest when Breanna was alive, but he’d brought the subject up at least three times in the past week.
After his father pulled out of the garage Derek walked back into the kitchen, grabbed the bag, and went upstairs. He entered his study, walked to the couch and folded the blanket he’d used the night before, placing it atop his pillow. He was a billionaire and yet he slept on a couch. Something was wrong with this picture. Hell, something was wrong with his whole life.
He went to the far wall and pushed a few nearly invisible buttons, watching as the wine safe was exposed. He pulled out a bottle of white wine, one of Breanna’s favorites, uncorked it, and poured himself a glass before returning to his desk.
He didn’t want to be here drinking wine in the middle of the afternoon. Instead, he wanted to be with Breanna in the kitchen making lunch. They’d be talking about getting another dog, a collie or a lab. She would probably tell him about some of the new intakes at the rescue center she financed. She often visited them during lunch.
Had he seen anyone from the rescue at the funeral? He couldn’t remember. Had they been informed of Breanna’s death? He couldn’t remember that, either. There were so many people he’d had to call. They hadn’t thought to make a list. She was only thirty-six. You don’t anticipate dying at thirty-six.
He finished the glass too fast. He wasn’t really a wine drinker, but it seemed a way to connect with Breanna. They’d often sit here, especially when he was finishing up a project. She’d drink her wine and sit on the couch, either listening to him read his latest column aloud and giving her opinion or becoming a devil’s advocate as they argued about politics. He was conservative. She was more liberal. In the end, it hadn’t mattered. He’d respected her viewpoints as she did his.
Did he even want to open the bag? Did he have a choice? Grace had already made the first move and he was still bothered by what she’d said. She might be delusional or simply the kind of person who wanted to start trouble.
He forced himself to open the bag, thinking that Angie’s method of storing
this information was apropos. If she thought it valuable, she would’ve put it in the red and black box she’d given him or one of the lockboxes she had in her bedroom closet. Each one had the same passcode of her birthday.
She’d kept his report cards there, as well as his high school diploma, each school picture and his first — and last — disciplinarian note from Walter E. Jackson Elementary. He and Tommy Davidson had scored some of Tommy’s older brother’s pot and smoked it during lunch behind the gym. He’d spent the next day alternately throwing up and crying. The throwing up had been because of the pot. The crying had been because of the punishment from his father. He’d disappointed Paul and his father had delivered his judgment with an hour long lecture and a spanking with a ping pong paddle.
Maybe he hadn’t rebelled during puberty because he didn’t want to disappoint his parents again. Instead, he’d concentrated on his studies — advanced placement courses — as well as college courses in the summer. He’d been on the basketball team during his junior and senior year. He probably could’ve skipped his senior year but for basketball.
The contents of the bag were sparse, but he hadn’t thought there’d be much. There were three Polaroids of him as a baby, evidently only hours old. Baby Boy Colson. Like most newborns he was essentially ugly with a scrunched up red face — as if he disapproved of the whole birthing process.
There was a faded document at the bottom containing information about Grace. She’d been twenty-two when he was born. Her pregnancy had been normal, the father not listed, and the reason she was considering adoption was to pursue her studies, although what she was studying wasn’t mentioned. The only other information was her religion: protestant and her blood type of O positive.
There was an identification bracelet in the bottom of the bag, the tiny white and blue plastic squares listing his birth date. An envelope dated the same date held a lock of superfine black baby hair.
