With a frown, my brows draw together as I stare at the envelope. “Who is it from?”
“Sorry, miss, I’m not at liberty to say.” He retreats from the front porch. “I’ll try again tomorrow.”
“Wait!” I don’t know what the envelope contains, but what if it’s important? “I’m Eloise’s daughter. Is it possible for me to sign for it?”
His footsteps falter. “Are you over the age of eighteen?”
“Yes.”
Silently he mulls it over before shrugging. “Sure, I guess that would be fine.”
He holds out the electric pad and stylus to scrawl my name. As soon as I return the device, he hands over the package.
“Have a nice night.” With that, he leaves me standing in the doorway.
I watch as he slides behind the wheel of a fancy black sedan before pulling out of the driveway. Only then do I glance at the thick packet in my hand. Mom’s name and address are typed on a white label on the front of the envelope. I flip it over, unable to find a return address.
That’s odd.
My hands tighten around the package as I trudge up the staircase to the second floor. Whatever this is, it must be important for someone to go through all the trouble of hand delivering it. At the top of the stairs, I turn to the right and move toward my parents’ master suite. Thirty steps brings me to the closed door of Mom’s bedroom. Unsure what I’ll find, I press my ear against the thick wood and listen for sounds of life.
There are none. It’s been this way for almost a week. I realize Mom is going through a tough time. We all are, but I need her to snap out of it and take control.
I raise my fist and hesitate before rapping my knuckles against the door.
When my knock is met with silence, I add a little more force to it and try again. “Mom?” I pause for a beat. “Are you awake?”
Guilt rushes in for disturbing her, but all she does is sleep. At some point, she needs to rejoin the land of the living. We can’t continue like this for much longer.
When my second attempt goes unanswered, I wrap my fingers around the handle and push the door open before taking a peek inside. The normally bright and spacious room is shrouded in shadows. As my eyes adjust to the gloom, I spy Mom curled up in the middle of the bed. She’s burrowed beneath the covers as if she’s a small child hiding from the monsters in her closet. If not for the slight snoring, I’d be concerned that she had done something stupid.
This is the first time I’ve had to deal with this kind of all-encompassing grief. It’s nothing short of terrifying and it only makes me realize how powerless I am to help her or make the situation better. The only thing I know how to do is take charge and hold our lives together until she can surface from the depression she’s fallen into.
I could wake her up, but what then?
Will she remember that Dad is gone, or will I have to explain it to her all over again? Honestly, I don’t have the energy for that. I chew my lower lip before creeping out of the room. Whatever is contained in the envelope can wait until morning. I’ll talk to her at breakfast before she numbs the pain with fresh medication.
It might not be a bad idea to look over the paperwork first. Then I can bottom line it for her. With that decision made, I return to my room and settle on the bed before sliding my finger under the flap and lifting the sheath of papers from the envelope.
Dread curls like a wisp of smoke in my belly as I realize where the correspondence originated from.
Keaton Rothchild.
Even though every other word is legal jargon that makes comprehension difficult, what becomes clear is that he has every intention of moving forward with the lawsuit.
Unless…
The Hawthornes fulfill the original terms that were agreed upon with the caveat I live under their roof. A trapdoor springs open and I’m sent into freefall. The letters on the thick sheet of paper swim before my eyes.
How can he demand this of me at a time like this?
Dad is dead.
How much more will he extract from us?
Already I know the answer.
Everything.
He’ll squeeze us for every drop and even then, he’ll be greedy for more.
My mouth dries as a wave of dizziness crashes over me. Hoping that I misread the document, I pour over it a dozen more times. Even though I want to crumple the papers and throw them in the garbage can where they belong, that’s not an option.
Maybe I should wake Mom. She needs to know what new demands Keaton is making. My knees turn to jelly as I rise to my feet and take a tentative step toward the door before stumbling to a halt.