The Reading

The law office smelled like lemon polish and old paper, and Delphine Holbrook-Voss sat with her hands folded so tightly her knuckles had gone white.

Six days. It had been six days since they buried their mother, and already Barrett was checking his watch.

"He's late," Barrett said, not looking up. "Of course he's late."

"He's grieving," Delphine said.

"He's high," Barrett said.

The door swung open and Corwin Holbrook stumbled in, tie undone, sunglasses pushed up into hair that hadn't seen a comb in days. "Traffic," he said, dropping into the chair beside Delphine. "Don't start."

Mr. Abernathy, their mother's lawyer for thirty years, cleared his throat from behind his desk. Bow tie straight, glasses low on his nose, the same unhurried calm he'd worn at every family crisis since Delphine was a teenager.

"Shall we begin?"

Barrett leaned forward. "Please."

Abernathy opened the folder. "Odessa Holbrook's estate — the house on Larkspur, the Holbrook Group holdings, the accounts — is to be divided equally among all her children."

Barrett almost smiled. Three-way split. The company would still be his to run, but the money — finally, the money would be real.

"That's clean," Corwin muttered. "Mom hated messy things."

Delphine watched Abernathy's face and felt something cold settle behind her ribs. He wasn't smiling. He wasn't even looking at them.

"Mr. Abernathy?" she said.

He glanced at the clock on the wall, then at the door.

"There's one more person joining us," he said. "I was told to wait until they arrived before I said anything further."

Barrett's jaw tightened. "One more person joining what, exactly?"

Abernathy folded his hands over the folder, and for the first time in thirty years, Delphine watched the old man look uncertain.

"The reading," he said. "Your mother was very specific. All four of her children need to be in the room."

The word landed like a dropped glass.

"Four," Barrett repeated. "There are three of us."

Behind them, the office door opened.