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Amelia

Nothing good happens on a Tuesday.

My mother died on a Tuesday.

Years later, my father died on a Tuesday.

And four weeks ago, my brother died on a Tuesday.

“Lia?” A kind voice interrupts the silence of my office. It’s only lasted five minutes, the quiet, and now it’s gone.

“Good morning, Sarah.” I get up from my desk. I need more coffee. The two cups I’ve had so far haven’t put a dent in my exhaustion.

It’s only ten o’clock and I’ve already had to deal with a bed shortage at the halfway house, had a meeting with the counseling staff, and checked two of our clients into the full-time rehab facility we work closely with.

“I know you’re busy, but there’s an attorney out here who is demanding to see you.” She frowns. “He says he’s already left you several messages.”

I grimace.

Luther VanCroft. My brother’s estate attorney.

“Can you get him to make an appointment? I can meet with him later.” I slide my mug beneath the Keurig after popping in a fresh pod.

“I suggested that, but he said you’ve already missed two appointments.” She tilts her head a little to the left. “I don’t think he’s going away this time, Lia.”

I sigh. Putting off the reading of my brother’s will wasn’t intentional.

At first.

After the funeral, everything erupted around me. At first, I was glad for the distraction.

I’d just lost my brother, leaving me the only person left of our little family. Having to navigate the funeral, the separate memorial services for him, and multiple social gatherings in his name left me drained.

I didn’t have time to process that he was really gone. My daily calendar is always full of meetings, emergencies, and events. The fact that every event in the past few weeks was in his honor didn’t really hit me. I’ve been on autopilot.

Even with our father having been gone for eight years, there were still plenty of his political associates that wanted to extend their condolences. There were two small memorial lunches for Lucas last week given by groups that helped keep my father firmly seated in his Alderman chair.

They’d held out hope that Lucas would follow in our father’s footsteps. Right up until the accident, they’d sought him out to seek political appointment.

“Lia. He’s not going to leave,” Sarah says when I remain quiet, trying to figure out a way to put this part off for a little bit longer.

Once he reads the will, there’s no more denying that Lucas is gone and never coming back.

Tears I’ve managed to hold at bay threaten, but I clear my throat and blink until they retreat.

“Fine. I’ll see him.” I dump the third spoonful of sugar into my coffee and stir in the creamer.

Luther has been my family’s attorney, or least one of their team, forever. He’s in his early seventies and probably should have retired years ago. The last time I had to deal with him directly was when my father died, eight years ago.

It was a short meeting. Dad left everything to Lucas, except a small bit he put aside in a trust fund for me when I turn twenty-five. Lucas had been named my guardian, as I’d been only sixteen at the time.

“Amelia.” Luther greets me as he walks in carrying his outdated, but still somewhat fashionable briefcase. “I’m glad you’re able to see me.”

I gesture to the chair in front of my desk as I sink into mine.

“I don’t have a lot of time; can we do this quick?” The sooner I can bury my head in the sand regarding all of this, the better my day will be.

He eyes me over the rim of his thick glasses as he gently places his briefcase on top of a pile of papers on my desk. “It shouldn’t take long.”

“Good.” I take a sip of my coffee. Ooh, a little too much sugar. I put the mug down again.

After closing his briefcase, he hands me a copy of the will and keeps a copy for himself as he leans back.

“Can you just summarize it for me?” I put the document on my desk after my eyes sweep over my brother’s name listed under the last will and testament heading.

He looks a little relieved at my request. “Yes, that’s fine.”

“Lia.” Caroline, one of the counselors, bursts into my office. Glancing at Luther, she winces. “Oh. Sorry.”

“It’s okay. Is something wrong?”

“I have a probation officer on the phone demanding clinic notes. I’ve told him three times I can’t send them without a court order or a release from the client. But he’s insisting.”

“I assume there is no subpoena on file and the client hasn’t agreed to share clinical information?” I clarify.

“That’s right. I told him I can give him an update on if the guy has shown up for his sessions, which he has, but I can’t give him anything else without the other things.” She looks at my phone, a soft plea in her eyes.

I sigh. “What line?”

“Two. Thank you. I have a client waiting on me.” She wiggles her fingers at me with a big grin and hurries from the room.

“Sorry, Luther, one more minute.” I grab the call and deal with the probation officer who is more insistent than a man in his position should be.

He knows the law as well as I do in this situation; he’s just trying to strong-arm us to avoid having to do the legwork to get it done the right way.

After I hang up, leaving him just as annoyed as he was when I took his call, I sink back into my chair.

Luther clears his throat, reminding me he’s still in my office, waiting for me.

“Sorry. Okay, let’s get it done.” I fold my hands on my desk and give him my undivided attention.

“Your brother made things very straightforward in regard to his estate,” Luther starts out. “As you know?—”

“Lia. Shit. Sorry.” Ramon, one of our social workers, rushes into the room, cutting short when he sees Luther.

“It’s okay, what do you need?” I give Luther an apologetic smile.

“Sherman, the fifty-year-old you found a bed for this morning?” Ramon shakes his head. “He’s being transported back here. The shelter had some mix-up and there’s no bed for him. I tried calling Julia, but she’s got nothing.”

I hang my head and take a deep breath. That bed had been nearly impossible to get in the first place.

Sherman doesn’t need rehab services, just somewhere to sleep and shower while he finds his footing again.

“All right.” I pinch the bridge of my nose, willing my brain to find a solution here. “I’ll pull a favor. One sec.”

They both watch me as I make a quick call to a shelter up north. It’s an hour’s drive away, and outside the city limits, but that might be just what he needs. A day or two away from all the bars and clubs calling his name at night.

“There.” I hang up my phone and scribble the address on a piece of paper for Ramon. “Call the bus and let them know to take Sherman there. They won’t have an actual bed for him until this afternoon, but he’ll just have to make do. He can stay there for three days; that’s their limit for emergencies. If he wants a more permanent solution, he needs to be assigned a caseworker there.”

Ramon glances at the address. “This isn’t even in the city.”

“Right.” I nod. “That’s why it’s a last resort. They can get him set up with a social worker, job training, and a more permanent housing solution. It’s that or nowhere, Ramon.”

He nods. “He’s going to hate it, but I think it’ll be good for him. The city drags him down.”

We’ve worked on and off with Sherman over the last three years since we’ve opened the doors to the Moreau Community Center. He’s a good guy, and he tries, but he’s definitely one of our more needy clients.

“I’ll call it in. Thanks, Lia.” Ramon takes the address and leaves the office.

“Sorry about that.” I smile back at Luther.

“You’re busy around here.” He tries to give a sympathetic smile, but I can see the tension behind it.

“Unfortunately, there are a lot of people struggling with mental illness and drug abuse in this city. Actually, everywhere, but I can only handle one area at a time.” The tiny section of the city that we service overloads us most weeks.

We’ll help anyone who walks through our doors, but most of our clients are from this neighborhood.

“I’ve always admired the work you’ve done with the foundation your brother helped you set up.” His eyes warm a little. “Which is partly why I’m here; there’s something in the estate that needs to be addressed right away because it affects the foundation and more directly the center.”

Now he has my attention.

“Oh? I assumed everything would roll to me? I mean, I’m sure Lucas has left a good amount to a bunch of charities he liked to donate to, but the foundation shouldn’t be given away.” My stomach clenches.

Lucas knew how important the center was; he wouldn’t have given it away.

“Oh, good. Sarah said you had the attorney here.” Christian Sendell, the third member of the board of trustees for Moreau Foundation, waltzes into my office.

Christian roomed with Lucas in college, and they’d stayed close friends.

So when we made the move to start Moreau Foundation, and we needed a third member for the board, he’d been an obvious choice.

For the most part, he stays out of the way. A third name on the papers for legal purposes.

“Christian. I didn’t realize you were coming by today?”

“It’s April, Lia. Our quarterly meeting.” He shifts his coat to his other arm and digs into his suit jacket for his phone that’s ringing.

Without a glance at the screen, he declines the call.

“I’d forgotten about it.” I blink a few times. “I mean, without Lucas…” My voice trails off and I take a deep breath.

“Yes, well, like I was saying, you do need a third member. And your brother has named the person to take his seat,” Luther continues, his expression tightening with the addition to our meeting.

“He can do that?” Christian asks, stepping closer to us. “I thought we’d be able to replace him on our own.”

I pull back a little. Replace him?

“I just mean we’d find someone to be the third member,” he says when he notices my expression.

“If I could just get through all of this, it will all make sense.” Luther spreads his hands out over the will still sitting on his lap.

“All right.” Leaving my desk, I shut the door and press my back to it. “Go on, Luther.”

He takes a deep breath. “All right. Thank you.” He turns slightly in his chair so he can see both me and Christian. “Lucas has indeed left nearly everything to you, Amelia. All of his properties, his cars, the bank accounts, and your trust fund, which is still closed until your twenty-fifth birthday.”

I nod. “All right.”

“But.” He pauses, as though he needs a moment to gather his strength.

The doctor did the same thing at the hospital when he was getting ready to tell me Lucas hadn’t pulled through surgery. That they’d done everything they could, but he’d suffered too much internal damage in the car crash for them to repair. He’d passed away in the operating room.

“Luther. You’re scaring me, what else could there be?” I push off the door.

“Technically, the entirety of the estate goes to you, Amelia, but in order to collect the inheritance and keep the foundation alive, which would keep the center open, you have to?—”

“Lia, there’s a delivery out back. They need a signature.” Carey, the front desk reception lead, hits me with the door when she opens it. “Shit. Sorry.”

I blink a few times. His last words were drowned out by Carey’s arrival.

“Hold on, Carey.” I put a hand up and step toward Luther again. “Say that last bit again. What do I have to do?”

He swallows hard, like having said it the first time was hard enough, and he didn’t want to do it again.

“You have to marry. Specifically, you must marry Dmitri Dragunov.”