cell phone. It would take only a moment to dial 911.
“What are you doing in my apartment?”
“I apologize for that. It is cold outside—I asked your landlord to unlock for me.”
“And she did it, just like that.”
“Of course, once I explained who I am, and why I am here. She said to tell you she is very sorry for your loss.”
Vivian rubbed at the kink in her neck. “Why exactly are you here, Ms.—?”
“Call me Jehenna.”
“Jehenna, then. It’s not exactly the usual practice for an attorney to personally break the news.”
The woman reached into a shapeless leather bag, her eyes never leaving Vivian’s, and drew out a set of papers, which she laid on the table between them. “You will find here your grandfather’s will. You inherit everything. His home, his possessions.”
Vivian set the phone on the table and scanned the document. It seemed authentic. The language was right—difficult, obscure legalese; all of the signatures were there, including George Maylor, her grandfather, and a scrawl that might say
Jehenna
if you looked at it with your eyes crossed. But this was uncharted territory and she was definitely notthinking clearly. She needed Jared. “I’d like to call someone—”
“Why would you do this?”
“He’s an attorney. I’d like to have his advice—”
“What is his name? Perhaps we have met.”
“Jared Michaelson. He’s with Baskin and Clarke—”
Jehenna waved a dismissive white hand. “I am sure he is occupied now with other things. You have plenty of time to contact him. He can probate the will, if you wish. I am here only to explain some things and to bring to you some bequests.”
Jehenna reached again into the bag and pulled out an envelope, laying it on the table on top of the will. It had been sealed and then neatly sliced open. Vivian’s name was written in a spiky black hand.
“You’ve opened it,” Vivian said, taking the envelope and drawing out a single sheet of loose-leaf paper.
“It was left with Mr. Smoot with instructions for him to get it to you at once should Mr. Maylor pass on. Mr. Smoot thought it best he should understand any bequests so he can offer you his best assistance.”
The note was written in the same bold, black hand as her name on the envelope:
Dear Vivian:
You are young yet, and I had hoped to save you this moment for reasons beyond the scope of this note. If you are reading this now, it is because I am dead. You are my only heir, which makes you a Dreamshifter, and sadly, the last of them. I have done what I can to help you, little as it is. Unfortunately, it is not safe to write more, lest it fall into the wrong hands. Be careful of doors, they can lead to unexpected places. Edwin Smoot, my attorney, will explain more to you. TRUST NO ONE until you have time to talk with him.
George Maylor
Vivian reread this missive twice, then folded it and put it back inside the envelope.
“He says his attorney is Mr. Smoot.”
“Mr. Smoot was unavailable,” the smooth voice answered. “Your grandfather’s death was sudden. Mr. Smoot believed it would be best for you to know at once.”
“He might have called.”
“He felt a face to face would be more productive and has scheduled you in for Tuesday next, if you will be available then? In the meantime we had promised to deliver the bequests immediately upon Mr. Maylor’s death.”
“I really think I’d rather wait and talk with Mr. Smoot.”
“Ms. Maylor, you are being stubborn. Mr. Maylor was getting old—he had a hard time accepting that times change. When he was young, Mr. Smoot would have been available to personally deal with all of his needs. Now Mr. Smoot himself is aging. He also runs a busy and successful law firm. He must use his staff, or he cannot get his work done. Mr. Maylor did not understand this, but I’m sure that you will.”
The wide eyes were serene and steady, but Vivian felt a growing unease. Memory ghosts swept her mind with cobwebby fingers.
“What are you doing in my apartment?”
“I apologize for that. It is cold outside—I asked your landlord to unlock for me.”
“And she did it, just like that.”
“Of course, once I explained who I am, and why I am here. She said to tell you she is very sorry for your loss.”
Vivian rubbed at the kink in her neck. “Why exactly are you here, Ms.—?”
“Call me Jehenna.”
“Jehenna, then. It’s not exactly the usual practice for an attorney to personally break the news.”
The woman reached into a shapeless leather bag, her eyes never leaving Vivian’s, and drew out a set of papers, which she laid on the table between them. “You will find here your grandfather’s will. You inherit everything. His home, his possessions.”
Vivian set the phone on the table and scanned the document. It seemed authentic. The language was right—difficult, obscure legalese; all of the signatures were there, including George Maylor, her grandfather, and a scrawl that might say
Jehenna
if you looked at it with your eyes crossed. But this was uncharted territory and she was definitely notthinking clearly. She needed Jared. “I’d like to call someone—”
“Why would you do this?”
“He’s an attorney. I’d like to have his advice—”
“What is his name? Perhaps we have met.”
“Jared Michaelson. He’s with Baskin and Clarke—”
Jehenna waved a dismissive white hand. “I am sure he is occupied now with other things. You have plenty of time to contact him. He can probate the will, if you wish. I am here only to explain some things and to bring to you some bequests.”
Jehenna reached again into the bag and pulled out an envelope, laying it on the table on top of the will. It had been sealed and then neatly sliced open. Vivian’s name was written in a spiky black hand.
“You’ve opened it,” Vivian said, taking the envelope and drawing out a single sheet of loose-leaf paper.
“It was left with Mr. Smoot with instructions for him to get it to you at once should Mr. Maylor pass on. Mr. Smoot thought it best he should understand any bequests so he can offer you his best assistance.”
The note was written in the same bold, black hand as her name on the envelope:
Dear Vivian:
You are young yet, and I had hoped to save you this moment for reasons beyond the scope of this note. If you are reading this now, it is because I am dead. You are my only heir, which makes you a Dreamshifter, and sadly, the last of them. I have done what I can to help you, little as it is. Unfortunately, it is not safe to write more, lest it fall into the wrong hands. Be careful of doors, they can lead to unexpected places. Edwin Smoot, my attorney, will explain more to you. TRUST NO ONE until you have time to talk with him.
George Maylor
Vivian reread this missive twice, then folded it and put it back inside the envelope.
“He says his attorney is Mr. Smoot.”
“Mr. Smoot was unavailable,” the smooth voice answered. “Your grandfather’s death was sudden. Mr. Smoot believed it would be best for you to know at once.”
“He might have called.”
“He felt a face to face would be more productive and has scheduled you in for Tuesday next, if you will be available then? In the meantime we had promised to deliver the bequests immediately upon Mr. Maylor’s death.”
“I really think I’d rather wait and talk with Mr. Smoot.”
“Ms. Maylor, you are being stubborn. Mr. Maylor was getting old—he had a hard time accepting that times change. When he was young, Mr. Smoot would have been available to personally deal with all of his needs. Now Mr. Smoot himself is aging. He also runs a busy and successful law firm. He must use his staff, or he cannot get his work done. Mr. Maylor did not understand this, but I’m sure that you will.”
The wide eyes were serene and steady, but Vivian felt a growing unease. Memory ghosts swept her mind with cobwebby fingers.
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