by A. N. Latro
“It's a good news day, isn't it, Seth?” The voice makes his burning skin seem insignificant. His nerves protest, flinging the anxiety back to the surface. It’s been quiet since the funeral, but it was too much to think she’d stay away. He sighs.
“Only you would call debt, murder, and destruction good news,” he answers, gathering the courage beneath the quick-fire exterior and looking up to meet Vera’s eyes.
“It's all relative, I suppose.” She smiles, eyes dancing emerald with the jade earrings that hang against her neck. He glances around from the cover of his shades, then tucks the paper in the crook of his arm and pulls her off the street by her elbow to an alternate route. They come to a stop beside a bank of townhouses. He can feel the tension in her, the dangerous fascination: will he fuck her or kill her?
“Are you fucking insane?” he snaps. “The funeral wasn't enough for you?”
“In fact, it wasn't,” she answers, jerking her arm out of his grasp. “All I wanted to say was sorry for your loss, but I was rudely interrupted.”
“You knew better than to show up there,” he answers, flicking some now-cold liquid from his stinging hand. “You just like to show your ass. You have some nerve finding me here. We’re practically under my uncle's nose.”
“Look who's talking about showing his ass. That's some grand hypocrisy. Maybe I wanted to see you when I found out you were back. You were gone for a long time, Seth. A girl doesn't forget your kisses, even after the years pass.”
He looks at her as though he cannot accept her words, like maybe he doesn't want to think about the ways in which their lips have met. Her answer is worse than his presumptions about her.
She can practically see the mask go up between them. She watches him retreat emotionally, becoming cold and remote so effortlessly. It’s terrifying and fascinating.
So this is how dangerous boys grow up to be deadly men.
Vera can smell bullshit in the media like a wolf in the shadows. She knows Caleb didn't drown in some freak accident on a yacht with his high-rolling party friends. She knows that her life's blood, the facts behind his premature demise, are much better left at the bottom of the Hudson with his soul. Her silent reply brings his chin up, and she can feel his appraisal. She lets the honesty linger in her eyes before glazing them over with her own facade. He doesn’t need to know everything. Not yet.
“I'm fairly sure that your uncle does not own this sidewalk,” she says with the slightest raise of an eyebrow. She has the most compelling feeling that, beneath the mask, he is furious. He wants to argue so badly, but that would be incriminating. She takes herself a step closer, shamelessly breathing in his scent, yet turning a shoulder to the street as if to shield them. She sees his fingers tighten on his coffee. She notices the sharpened lines along his jaw—she notices everything.
“I see you've been busy on your knees to get dirt like this,” he says, bringing the offending paper back into play as he urges them into a walk once again, this time without touching her.
She grins as she says, “Indeed. The standards of American journalism have reached their murkiest point in history so that true, hard reporting can be trumped by a good lay on the editor's desk.” Then she puts her hands against her mouth to blow hot air onto them. She watches him sidelong through the white breath. She adds, “I had to keep myself busy, or I would have started missing your face in the gossip pages.”
Now he's sure she is testing his show of heartlessness. He can still see her lips curling tauntingly beneath her fingers. This tactic, he realizes, may not work unless he makes her really feel it. “There are some things that people do not have a right to know,” he tells her. He forgoes discretion for a little bit of fire and drops the paper into a slushy puddle on the sidewalk, stepping on the slab of pages to avoid getting his shoes wet.
Her steps slow for just a moment. She pushes her hands deep into her coat pockets and watches her shoes crush chunks of salt into the cracks of the cement. The snow thickens, bringing with it a fantastical hush upon the street. Then she asks pointedly, “Do you have a guilty conscience, my dear? Did I get a little too close to home?”
He pulls his shades off with unsettling steadiness and turns a terrifying stare on her. It is so hard to ignore the elegance with which she has weathered his time away. Her beauty has only refined with the subtle changes of age. The allure of her mischievous gaze is damn near impossible to ignore. She gives him a surprisingly disarming and devilish smile, and he cannot hide it as his eyes slide over her sensuous lips. He stops. Two steps later, so does she. He says to her back, “I'm trying to keep you from learning the hard way.”
“The life of a reporter is the hard way.” She sighs as she turns to him, stare weighted by the unavoidable arousal he moves in her.
He closes the gap between them with chilled grace, claiming eye contact. She has seen his lust enough times to recognize it now in those brown, soulful eyes, until he says, “You need to understand that the people you're trying to expose are invested in seeing you fail. You have no idea what you're fucking with.”
His voice is low, almost hoarse from the restraint he forces with it. His eyes don't leave hers as he raises his cup to take a long, shallow sip, just to break the space between them. It is his breath that drifts up visibly now.
“You see, Seth,” she replies, voice hauntingly empty and condescending, “what I have realized is that everyone in this twisted world of ours is only out to get theirs, and the most efficient way to get yours is to take from those who are too stupid to cover their asses. That's something I would have thought you'd understand well.”
He makes a short, sarcastic laugh, almost a scoff. “And you think you can outsmart everyone with no consequences?” he asks, expression crunching finally into aggravated disbelief.
“I will at least play my own cards, which is more than you can say, from what I can tell,” she huffs, shoulders straightening defiantly. “I'm sorry for your loss, Mr. Morgan. That's all I wanted to say,” she adds. It feels like the heel of her tall, designer boot grinds into his chest as she turns on it and walks away. He remembers a time, seemingly forever ago, when she called his father the same title, and he shudders.
Morgan Estates, New York City. March 12th.
Seth realizes he is staring at the top of his desk without seeing its contents, the sparse and generic items that are indicative of a professional workspace. Despite the adequate time that he's been back, he has made no moves to personalize the space from the sleek, default décor that had been furnished for Caleb's use in Seth's absence. From what his receptionist told him, Caleb never did his work from headquarters, rather he had always preferred more of a street view when conducting his business. This news doesn't surprise Seth in the least; Caleb was never much for offices, water cooler gossip, and assistants.
It's been less than a week since he so unceremoniously ran into Vera. His aggravation has barely had time to cool, and now, as he idly listens to the soft chatter from the girls in the reception area, he waits to meet with one of the family's lawyers concerning something confidential about his dead brother, who is ever rampant in his thoughts. His day, he thinks, is only going to get worse.
Acid rises in his throat at the thought of reducing Caleb to a bunch of numbers and words on some papers, and he bites back the urge to break everything in the sterile, soulless room. His intercom buzzes, a streak like hot lead through his veins, and his jaw clenches at the sudden intrusion. He smashes the button, all but growls, “Yeah?”
“Your appointment is here, sir.”
“Ok.”
He sits back into his padded office chair and smooths his tie. It's absurd to be so en guard about a lawyer, but he can't seem to soothe his nerves as easily as he does his clothes. The door opens, and Seth's poker face slides instinctively into place.
The lawyer is a manicured, bespectacled thirty-something, the youngest of the senior partners who have represented the Morgans since before Seth was born. In some other settin
g, Seth might appreciate the irony of the firm's heir coming before the Morgan Estate’s heir. As it is, he simply stands, shakes the man's hand, and they sit, Seth behind his big, important-looking desk, and the lawyer in the guest spot.
“I'm—ugh—sorry for your loss, Mr. Morgan,” says the lawyer, Bradford Oleander, proudly licensed to practice in the states of New York, New Jersey, and Virginia. He clears his throat.
Inside, Seth's anxiety turns another notch at being called Mr. Morgan. His expression doesn't twitch. “Thanks,” he says, without feeling, as he pins the lawyer with a heavy look. “If you wouldn't mind skipping the bullshit, what's going on? What is the purpose of this meeting?”
Bradford Oleander clears his throat again as he pops open his briefcase. He keeps his eyes thoroughly entranced in the contents therein, rather than meeting Seth in the eye. He says, “With all due respect, sir, I don't know.”
“What do you mean, you don't know?” asks Seth, much sharper than he means to. He immediately regrets the minor loss of composure.
“Well,” says Oleander as he pulls a manila envelope into the light. “About six months before Caleb—eh—passed, he entrusted me with this under a confidentiality agreement that I would speak of it to no one, that I wouldn't open it, and that if anything happened to him, I would hand it only directly to you—and only if no one else was around. Frankly, Mr. Morgan, I have no idea what's inside.”
The envelope passes hands, and Seth has to bite down on his lip to keep from ripping it open. He eyes the seal, the glue still completely intact. As if Caleb hadn't thought this would be hard enough, he sealed the clasp with wax and their father's signet ring.
“Who else knows about this?” asks Seth. Breaking the wax-imprinted letters “G.M.” is like inserting a knife into his flesh.
“No one, sir,” says Oleander. He's watching as if the packet were a bomb in Seth's hands, and the seal a mass of colored wires.
“No one? Not your seniors, or your secretary? Not my uncle?” asks Seth.
“No, sir. It's been in my personal safety deposit box since the day he gave it to me.”
Game face be damned, Seth takes a long, steadying breath as he pulls the contents into the light. He's not sure if it's real or in his head, but he's sure he can smell the hint of smoke from a Marlboro Red. If asked, he couldn't say exactly what he's expecting to see, but he could certainly say he expects more than three neat black and white pages. It takes a moment for the words on the top page to fall into focus.
“It's a will,” he all but chokes. He makes as much sense of the words as he can while he reads. It's all legal jargon, a strictly technical outline of all Caleb's assets at the time the document was drawn. He flips to page two, finding much the same cold rendition of Caleb's last wishes. Page three is a sort of family tree for the assets that had originally been Gabe's, then passed to Caleb, and would now be left with Seth. “Son of a bitch,” Seth mutters, just a way to expend some of his surprise.
Everything, every single account and bond and share is now Seth's. Everything. The only exception is that, upon the event that Seth is—one—also deceased, or—two—not conscious, that everything be left under Emma's control. A will?
“Did he leave any public form or indication of a will?” he asks. He can't take his eyes from the papers, though the characters on the page have ceased to hold meaning for him.
“No, sir.”
“Don't call me sir,” says Seth. He shakes his head like it will help him understand. “So he prepared a will, but didn't tell anybody? Why?”
Oleander is tense, perched on the edge of his chair. He is highly aware that he is in a very precarious and unique position, one that some would die to be in, and one that some would kill to avoid. To be in the nucleus of Seth Morgan's world is a terrifying thing, like flying too close to the sun, and if the Morgans' lawyers know anything, it's the less you know, the better. He tries not to sweat as he says, “He never said why, sir—er, Mr. Morgan. It was not my place to ask.”
For a tense and suffocating stretch, Seth just stares, his eyes blank and his expression unreadable, as if he can glean some shred of Caleb's intent like a psychic can read residual energy imprints from an object. Instead, he sees the same hard facts, nothing more. Finally, he asks, “And this is all you have for me?”
“Yes, Mr. Morgan.”
“Seth. Call me Seth,” he growls, pauses, realizes he has snapped. He adds, “Please.”
Bradford Oleander looks lost without his formalities, with his widened eyes and hesitation, so he just nods. He squeezes his hands together in his lap, and at length, he says, “I would be more than honored to assist you in whatever legal action you wish to take regarding this document.” They both know that honored is not quite the right word. Obligated, perhaps, or fated. He adds, “Caleb was always exceedingly thorough when it came to covering his . . . tracks, legally. Though I didn't assist in the will, I'm sure it is one-hundred-percent solid in the eyes of the law.”
Seth is quiet for another lapse, then he says, “Thank you, but I don't mean to take any action just yet. Just see that his assets are properly frozen until I decide what to do with them.”
Oleander's relief is palpable, as if his very soul has breathed a sigh. He says, “Yes, sir—shit—I mean, consider it done.”
Seth cocks a half-grin at the slip in professionalism. Caleb would approve. He doesn't really feel the humor, though, and so the smile fades just as fast. His eyes are dull when he says, “Thank you. For honoring your agreement with him. You will be compensated accordingly.” The lawyer's lips purse, and his brow lines as though he's carefully planning a polite way to decline. So Seth adds, “Off the record, of course. As a personal show of my gratitude.”
To hell with ethics, which is a shady sort of area of definition to the Oleanders anyway; who would argue with the Morgan heir at such a volatile moment? Not to mention, if his firm came under fire for their work with the Morgans, a gift of appreciation would be the least of their problems. He nods again.
“I'm sure you understand that you still do not speak of this,” says Seth. “I will be in touch.”
They shake hands as they stand, and though the contact is impersonal and empty on Seth's end, something still compels Bradford Oleander to stop just before he opens the door. He says, “If I may, Seth,” and the name is spoken like a foreign tongue. He waits for Seth to regain eye contact, for the subtle permission to continue. He gets it, so he says, “It seems obvious to me that Caleb left this to you because he didn't trust anyone else with it.”
Not the first clue. For just a glimpse, a moody darkness creeps into Seth's gaze, and Bradford Oleander experiences a flash of terror that he has angered his most important client. But then, the shadow passes, and in a move that completely betrays Seth's instincts, he asks, “Like what? What wasn't right?”
Oleander lifts his free hand in some sort of defense, and says, “I wouldn't presume to know. But as a lawyer, I'm trained to consider the possibilities. If you need anything else, please contact my office anytime.”
Then he slips out the door, and Seth is alone with a huge clue in the building mystery of his brother's life, and the even bigger mystery of his hurried death. Oleander's last words ring into the descending silence. Caleb's distrust ran much deeper than Seth could have realized, but why? What had gotten so bad that he would not even include a personalized note for Seth? And why completely exclude the uncle who had filled the shoes of their father?
His intercom buzzes again, and in the thick, solitary moment, he jumps. The speaker says, “The mayor's office is on line one.”
He punches the speak button, perhaps a little too hard, and says, “Tell them I'll call them back.”
He shoves the will back into the envelope so he doesn't have to look at it. The relationship between Caleb and Mikie had degraded to this point, and no one has bothered to mention it in the entire time Seth’s been back? Mikie himself, Emma, Nicolette—no one said a word. Of course, Mikie woul
dn't give away a shred of information that could compromise his position on the battlefield.
Seth frowns down at the nondescript envelope. The only other name mentioned in the will was Emma, which means Caleb trusted her, too. That probably also meant that she had absolutely no idea what was going on. To inform her would be to put her in danger. Caleb would never do that. That leaves Nicolette. Maybe, though, just maybe she didn't know anything either. She and Caleb never exactly got along, and Seth was her connection to his family's business. She loves him, so wouldn't she tell him about any hostilities if she knew? But then, what had she said on that cold city street, outside that posh little jazz club? That his family was falling apart.
His eyelids drop closed, and he jabs his fingers against them, as if the external pressure will ease the migraine of information that railroads through his brain. Maybe, if he pushes hard enough, he can gouge out all of his memories, and all the details he knows he doesn’t know. He releases an aggravated sigh, punctuates it by spitting the words, “Goddammit, Caleb.”
All he has to start from is a heated and hateful brotherly exchange, and this vague and glaring clue. All he has left is to follow the shaky lead Caleb has given him. If Caleb didn't trust anyone, neither will Seth. And if Caleb felt confident in bringing Emma deeper, so will Seth. It doesn't feel like much of a starting point, but it's the only door he's found that hasn't been sealed by the family code or blocked by stacks of skeletons. Regardless of Caleb's last words, he still had enough faith in and love for his brother to leave him a key to that one last door. And because of that, Seth's soul cannot rest until he knows the truth.
Rothum’s Family Tailors, New York City. March 21st.
