Chapter 3
Chapter Three
RONAN
Mitchell & Associates sits in the heart of Graystone Hollow’s business district, looking exactly like the kind of law office that doesn’t deal with people like me.
All polished wood and brass, with an air of old money that makes me twitch.
The leather chairs in the waiting room probably cost more money than I’ve seen in the past two years. Everything I’m not.
The receptionist’s smile falters when I give her my name, her eyes locking onto the tattoos peeking out from beneath my sleeve before she can stop herself. She recovers quickly, professional mask slipping back into place, but I catch the way her hand moves toward the alarm beneath the desk.
I’m used to that look. The quick assessment, followed by a subtle recoil. Seven years ago, it would have made me hunch my shoulders while I tried to make myself smaller. Now I just stand straighter, head held high, and let them see exactly what I am.
Her manicured fingertips tap against the computer keyboard.
“Mr. Mitchell will be with you shortly. Would you like something to drink while you wait, Mr. Oliver?”
I shake my head, shoving my hands into my pockets.
“Please, take a seat.” She returns to her paperwork.
I glance over at the leather chairs near one wall.
They’re positioned in front of a large dark wood bookcase filled with leather-bound law books that I would bet haven’t been opened in years, if ever.
On the opposite wall hang framed degrees for each of the lawyers who work here—Harvard, Yale, Columbia.
All names that open doors, and matter in rooms where decisions get made.
The coffee table placed between the two chairs holds magazines arranged in a perfect fan. Architectural Digest, Wine Spectator, Harvard Business Review. Publications for people whose biggest concern is which vacation home to visit this month, rather than where their next meal is coming from.
Rich people problems.
I opt to remain standing. There’s too much restless energy coursing through me, and my muscles are wound too tight for me to sit still.
My boots leave marks on the plush cream carpet with every step, while the receptionist’s eyes flick up to follow me every couple of seconds, as though she’s checking I don’t pocket something when she’s not looking.
The waiting feels endless. Every second that passes giving me too much time to think, too much space for doubt to creep in and set up camp in the back of my mind.
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, and safe.
“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. I must have 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.
“Shall I continue?”
“There’s more?” I can barely push the words out.
A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “The monthly allowance is to ensure you can focus on meeting the terms Mr. Edwards laid out in order for you to receive the full trust fund.”
“The terms?”
“For now, maintaining the property and bringing it back to a standard that makes it fully habitable. You must remain here in Graystone Hollow for six months, living in the house, and completing the work.” He slides an envelope across the desk, sealed with wax like something from another century.
“There are additional requirements, but per Mr. Edwards instructions, they are to be given to you a month after you sign to agree that you will take up residence at Cedar Street. This, however, you should read now, before you make a decision.”
The envelope is made of thick, expensive paper—the kind used for important documents, not notes passed to troubled kids who sleep in school libraries. I force down that thought before it takes root, and tear open the envelope with hands that want to shake.
Ronan,
You deserved so much better than what life gave you.
I should have done something back then, instead of waiting until it was too late.
I didn’t, and for that I will always be sorry.
I hope, at the least, I made the last seven years a little easier to bear, but for me it is not enough.
You are a good man, Ronan, and I want you to have the opportunities now that you didn’t get then.
I know your instinct will be to say no, but don’t let your pride take away this chance.
It's not charity, and it’s not pity. It’s the first step to taking back your future.
Harris.
My pulse pounds in my ears, drowning out whatever Mitchell is saying about paperwork and signatures. The letter crumples in my fist before I realize my fingers have moved.
“I understand that this is overwhelming,” Mitchell says quietly. His voice seems to come from far away. “Please take your time.”
But time won’t make this make sense.
“What do I need to do?”
“I need you to sign that you understand the terms, and there is some paperwork to finalize your ownership of the house and car. You will also need to take a walk to the bank, where they have some additional things for you to sign to release the account and funds to you.”
I nod, and sign where he tells me to. My signature looks wrong next to all the formal legal language.
Each stroke of the pen commits me to something I don’t understand.
Once I’m done, he has copies made of everything, and gives them to me.
Proof that this is real. That someone thought I deserved … something.
It makes me uncomfortable. I’m already regretting putting my name on the paperwork. There has to be a catch. Something I haven’t figured out yet.
“These are the house keys.” Mitchell holds them out.
I hesitate for a second before taking them.
The metal is too heavy in my palm. “Here’s the car key.
You’ll find the keys to the garage in the kitchen drawer at the house.
There’s also a workshop in the yard at the back.
The keys for that should be with the garage ones.
There is also another letter that Mr. Edwards would like you to open when you feel ready.
” He hands it to me, then stands up and holds out one hand. “Welcome home, Mr. Oliver.”
Home.
Graystone Hollow was never a home to me.
I don’t remember standing up. I don’t remember shaking his hand. I just remember walking out. The receptionist says something I don’t hear. My boots track more dirt on their cream-colored carpet.
And then I’m outside. The sharp fall air hits my face, shocking me back into awareness. My fingers are numb around the keys. My chest is tight. The letter burns in my pocket like it’s made of fire instead of paper.
A silver BMW rolls past, followed by a truck held together by rust and hope. Someone looks at me too long through the coffee shop window—a woman in pearls who probably thinks I’m casing the joint. I keep walking, keys digging into my palm hard enough to leave marks.
You deserved better.
No, I didn’t. I got what I earned. Exactly what happens when you make the choices I made. When everything spirals out of control, and you can’t do anything to stop it.
I should have done something.
There was nothing he could have done. Nothing anyone could have done. I wouldn’t have accepted the help, and by the time I realized I couldn’t do it alone, it was too late to matter.
Ten thousand dollars a month? A house? A car? Two hundred and fifty thousand waiting for me in six months, and then again in another twelve months?
It’s too much. It’s too easy. And it’s too generous for someone who spent years learning that nothing good lasts long.
Nothing in my life has ever come without a price higher than the one listed on the tag.
I walk faster, needing to burn off the restless energy that’s crawling under my skin. The urge to run pounds through me. Get out, don’t look too hard at what’s being offered. But I can’t.
The keys in my hand won’t let me. The letter in my pocket won’t let me.
Whatever else Edwards has planned is waiting for me like a time bomb set to go off in thirty days. And underneath it, the ghost of Graystone Hollow waits, reminding me that some places don’t let you forget what you were, no matter how much cash someone might throw at you to make you stay.
The light shifts as I walk, clouds building on the horizon, dark with the promise of rain. Leaves skitter across the sidewalk, dried out and brittle, caught in small whirlwinds that never let them settle anywhere for long.
I keep walking, past buildings I half-remember from when I was last here, and streets that hold memories I’ve spent years trying to outrun.
The keys stay clenched in my fist, metal warming against my palm.
The letter stays folded in my pocket, and I try not to think about what else he might have had to say.