Page 7 of Ghosts Don't Cry

I shouldn’t be here.

The thought circles like a hungry wolf, picking at the edges of my resolve.

I should walk out and forget whatever this is. Leave and go back to my life of just getting by. I was doing fine, moving from job to job, and keeping my head down. It’s worked for two years.

The door to one of the offices opens with a soft click, and a man in an expensive suit comes out, shaking hands with someone I can’t see. He nods to the receptionist, glances at me,then walks out. The interaction takes maybe thirty seconds, but it’s enough to remind me that I don’t belong in this place.

“Mr. Oliver?”

I spin at my name. The receptionist gestures toward the open door with a cautious smile, one that says she’ll breathe easier once I’ve left.

“Mr. Mitchell will see you now.”

The office beyond is worse than the waiting room. Bigger. Fancier. More imposing. A huge desk dominates the space, flanked by floor-to-ceiling windows that offer a view of the street outside.

The man behind the desk directs me to a chair. The leather hisses beneath me, letting out air when I sit. I rest my hands on my knees, refusing to touch the sleek, wooden arms. I don’t want to leave any hint of my presence in this place.

I wonder how many important people have sat in this exact spot, making decisions that shape other people’s lives in this town without having to live with any of the consequences themselves.

To the left of the desk, law books fill custom shelves. These don’t look decorative like the ones in the waiting room. They’re working books, with spines creased from use. The sight is oddly reassuring. At least someone in this temple to wealth actually does work.

Mitchell himself is younger than I expected. Maybe mid-forties, with a neatly trimmed beard and eyes that look too kind for a lawyer. He shuffles through papers on his desk, while I fight the urge to get up and walk out. There’s something about the way he smiles at me that makes me more uncomfortable than the receptionist’s obvious fear did.

Kindness has always been harder for me to handle than hostility. You know where you stand with that. Hostility doesn’t pretend to be anything other than what it is.

A silver-framed photograph sits on his desk, angled so I can see it. Him with a woman and two kids, all of them smiling. Everyone in the image looks healthy, happy, andsafe.

“Thank you for coming, Mr. Oliver.”

Mr. Oliver. As though I’m someone who belongs in an office like this. Someone who doesn’t have prison ink crawling up his arms, less than two hundred dollars in his bank account, and holes in his boots.

“You said this was about Harris Edwards.” My old history teacher’s name feels wrong in my mouth. It brings back memories I’d rather not think about.

Mitchell nods and taps a thick manila folder on his desk. “Mr. Edwards made some very specific provisions in his will regarding you.”

My fingers curl against my knees. The denim is worn there, almost threadbare, and I have to resist the urge to pick at a stray strand. “Why?”

“He was very clear about his wishes.” Ignoring my question, Mitchell opens the folder, and I catch a glimpse of Edwards’ handwriting—still the same swirling script I remember from letters and margin notes on essays. My throat tightens. “He has left you a house on Cedar Street, along with a substantial sum of money held in trust.”

The words bounce around in my head like stones in an empty jar, making noise but not settling into anything that actually makes sense. Imusthave heard him wrong.

“He … did what?”

“The house needs work, but comes with no mortgage. All fees for transferring the property to you have been covered.” He checks the paperwork in front of him. “There’s also a car. A newer model Honda. Less than a year old, with very little mileage. It’s in excellent condition. I assume you can drive? If not, there is also provision for that.”

“I can drive.” The answer comes automatically. That was the first thing I worked toward when I got out of prison and found my first job.

He nods, and notes something down in the margin of the sheet he’s reading. “Good. Then the money set aside for that will go toward the car’s upkeep.” He turns the page. “In addition to the house and car, you will receive an allowance of ten thousand dollars monthly. That will cover your daily living expenses, and is also to fund repairs to the house. After six months, an additional trust of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars will be released to you. Twelve months after that, providing you follow the requirements he’s laid out, there will be a second deposit of a further two hundred and fifty thousand.”

“No. What?” The words come out sharp enough to make Mitchell blink. My pulse is loud in my ears, my heart hammering against my ribs. “That’s not … He can’t?—”

The numbers keep spinning in my head, refusing to arrange themselves into anything that makes sense. A house. A car. More money than I’ve ever seen.

“Can I get you anything? Water? Coffee? Take a minute. I know this is a lot of information I’m giving you.” Mitchell’s voice is gentle, like he’s talking to a spooked animal.

Maybe that’s what I am. Some wild thing that’s forgotten how to trust, or how to accept anything good without searching for the trap.

I shake my head. I don’t think I could drink anything if I wanted to.