Chapter Twenty-Three
“OKAY, AND...WE’RE IN.”
Tuck’s face lights up like a kid’s on Christmas as he deftly taps the last few keys. We’re back in the office, crammed in front of his computer, and his nerdy excitement is on full display as the county database backend reflects in his glasses.
“I can’t believe you actually said that,” I say, laughing. I lower my voice to imitate him: “We’re in.”
Tuck chuckles. “Sue me, I like to be the cliche movie hacker once in a while.” He pushes his glasses up his nose and points to the screen. “So this is it, basically. The motherlode.”
I survey the screen. “It looks like a spreadsheet.”
“Well...it basically is,” Tuck admits. “But this has all the local records you could ever want. Court filings, criminal records, police reports, births, marriages, adoptions, wills—”
“I get the idea,” I cut him off, although I half-wonder how long he could keep going if I hadn’t. “And it’s really just this easy to get in?”
Tuck sits up a little straighter. “Well, I wouldn’t say it’s easy. You’ve got to know your way around SQL, understand the usual vulnerabilities, keep on top of patches...” He must see my eyes glazing over, because he snaps back to reality. “But really, once you know the rules, it’s just a giant machine. Computers do what you tell them; you just need to know how to ask.”
“Sounds like cars,” I say.
Tuck laughs. “I’ll take your word for it.” He reaches out and strokes my chin, just a quick, sweet gesture that nevertheless fills me with warmth. “So, what do you want to know?”
What don’t I want to know? I wonder. So much of what I’ve assumed about my life has proven to be a half-truth, if not an outright lie, that it’s hard to know where to start.
“Can we just search up my uncle and see what hits come up? John Lackland,” I tell him, and spell it for him as he types it in.
“And...done.” Tuck hits enter and row after row of records fill the screen. “Damn.” He scrolls, skimming over things. “Looks like he holds an awful lot of land. And businesses. Bunch of deed transfers, too—people just signing properties over to him?”
“Probably not by choice,” I mutter. It makes sense: smooth Uncle John shows up, promises to help some little old lady pay her mortgage, with the teeny-weeny technicality of him taking ownership of the place for a quarter of what it’s worth. I press a hand to my forehead. “Okay. Well, no surprise there. No criminal records for him or anything?”
“Doesn’t look like it,” Tuck says, still scrolling. “But judging by what you’ve told us, it sounds like he’s got some sort of diplomatic immunity.”
I snort. “Yeah, well. Getting the sheriff reelected for decades will earn you a blind eye in your direction.” I bite my lip and lean in over Tuck’s shoulder, scanning the records myself. Something he said earlier pings in my brain.
“Wills,” I say. “You said wills are in here?”
“Yep,” Tuck says. “The whole probate system. Why, do you think he’s planning to bequeath you something?”
“No, but...” I sit up straighter. “Search for Richard de Mornay.” I spell it. “That’s...my dad.”
My breath stops in my chest as the loading wheel spins...and then stops.
“First hit,” Tuck says. “His will.” He glances at me. “Are you sure you want to—”
“Yes,” I say firmly. “I’ve...never read it myself. Only heard my uncle tell me what’s in it. So I need to know.”
Tuck nods, and calls up the file. It’s old, a scratchy grainy PDF of the LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT OF RICHARD DE MORNAY, dated just a few months before he died.
“This is it.” My heart hammers as I take the mouse from Tuck and scroll. Lots of verbiage about business interests, real estate holdings, plenty of legalese I don’t understand. But there’s just one thing I need to see.
And I don’t see it.
I hit CTRL+F and type in “John Lackland.”
0 results.
I almost forget to breathe. Just to make sure, I call up the find window again and type in my own name.
Multiple hits. I navigate to the first one.
“...in its entirety to my daughter and only child, Maren...”
“...to be held by Maren in perpetuity...”
“...again to my daughter and only child, Maren...”
I push back from the desk, stunned.
Tuck looks from the screen to my face, to the screen again.
“Something’s up,” he says. “But you’re going to have to fill me in on what.”
“That motherfucking...” Anger consumes me all at once, like being plunged into hot lava. I leap to my feet. “There’s nothing there. Nothing. He’s not even mentioned in the will. My dad left it all to me. No strings, no trusts, no aging into shit. It was all supposed to be mine, as soon as they died. And John just...”
I start to pace the narrow expanse of the room, feeling both completely drained and totally wired.
“Of course no one enforced the will,” I say, gesturing wildly as I reason it out. “John probably just told the sheriff that it was all supposed to be his, and then the sheriff got the whatever judge—”
“Probate,” Tuck puts in.
“—to make it all happen without a peep.” I clench my jaw, pound my fist into my hand. “But then he must have gotten nervous that I was going to catch on, so he decided to belt-and-suspenders it with this conservatorship. And once that was set up, I’d be trapped, and anything that was mine would be his anyway. So even if someone bothered to enforce the actual will—”
“—it’d just go to him anyway,” Tuck finishes. He blows out a breath and sweeps his hair off his forehead, leaning back in his chair. “Jesus, Maren. I’m so sorry.”
“Not as sorry as he’s going to be,” I spit. I fold my arms, fury coursing through me. “If I ever see him again, I’m going to...to...”
“Hey, hey, easy,” Tuck says, getting to his feet and coming to rub my arms. “Revenge is best served cold, okay? And maybe not when your uncle’s actively trying to, uh...
“Murder me for my family fortune?” I laugh a humorless laugh. “God, how is this my life? It all sounds so fucking soap opera. What’s next, a long-lost identical twin? It’s all just a dream thought up by some kid? I mean, seriously.”
Tuck laughs a little, but my ranting seems to be making him uncomfortable, so I dial it back.
“Sorry,” I say. “I’m coming in hot. It’s just a lot to process. But also...good. Good to know the truth.”
Tuck nods. “Mm. I bet. I’m glad I could help.”
I flush. “Thank you.” I blow out a breath, and walk slowly back to the computer. “Wonder if there’s anything else mindblowing in here.”
I scroll back to the main results page, click around a bit. I pull up my parents’ marriage certificate, which breaks my heart a little to read, then my own birth certificate. And then, a bit further down...
“Police report,” I breathe. “July 17th.”
“That was the day they died,” Tuck says. Not a question, but I nod anyway. “I mean, I figured, based on the way you said it,” he adds quickly. “Are you sure you want to...”
“Yes.” I double click it—out of self-destruction or morbid curiosity or poor impulse control, I don’t know. But there it is, in black and white: the report from the night my parents died.
It’s what I expect, which is a strange kind of relief. Late night, slick roads, single car accident. 2:24 a.m. Telephone pole and terrible, terrible timing.
But there’s more. There’s—Jesus, there’s an autopsy report for my dad.
I never knew there had been an autopsy.
“Maren,” Tuck says gently. “Maybe you don’t need to read—”
“I’m fine,” I snap, and keep scrolling. Maybe it’s sick of me, but I don’t care. I can’t let the truth lurk out there if I know it exists. Not anymore.
My eyes skim with a strange ease past the gorier language—contusions, trauma, bleeding—and somehow, like a magnet pull, find a single phrase.
Blood tests indicate high opiate levels. Intoxication at time of death was likely.
I freeze. My hand finds my mouth, and I hear my own gasp from a distance, like it’s on a two-second delay.
“Maren—”
I can barely hear Tuck’s voice. I swallow, but my mouth is a desert. Swallow. Swallow. Try not to cry.
“Fucking...” I mutter at last, after how many seconds have passed, I don’t know. “Fucking drugs, Dad?”
The ear-piercing wail that fills the office is my own.
I crumple into Tuck’s chest, heaving sobs harder than anything I’ve cried in the past weeks, a soggy, snotty, stupid angry mess of a girl.
How is this my life?
I SPEND THE REST OFthe afternoon alone in my room, lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
It doesn’t make sense.
And yet...it does.
My dad wasn’t perfect. He’d have been the first to tell you that. He always had those light kinds of addictions that rich men get into—fast cars, big vacations, spending a little too much at poker night at the Fox Hunt Club, enjoying whiskey and a cigar more than was probably healthy—but drugs?
It doesn’t make sense, and yet it does.
Finally, long after dusk settles, I make my way downstairs for a glass of water. Someone’s in the kitchen, clattering around—Tuck, I assume—but when I slip in, I see it’s Will at the stove.
“Sorry,” I say, spreading my hands. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”
Will glances over his shoulder, and smiles when he sees me. “You’re not.” He turns around, holding out a saucepan. “I was making this for you, actually.”
I step closer to him and peer inside. Neon-yellow sauce and a mess of noodles.
“I know Tuck’s the real gourmet,” Will says, wiping one hand on the dishtowel over his shoulder. “But he’s helping Rob revamp some of the security hardware, and I remember you saying...”
“I’m a box mac-and-cheese girl,” I finish for him. The whole day’s mess of emotions drains out of me in a heartbeat, replaced with nothing but gratefulness. To think of Will, Mr. Sophistication himself, boiling macaroni and stirring in powdered orange cheese—God, but the mental image alone is enough to cheer me up.
“You’re just in time,” he goes on. “It’s ready. I...think.”
“Looks great,” I agree. Will nods at the counter.
“Sit.”
I do, and he sets the saucepan back down, opening cabinet after cabinet until I realize he has no idea where the bowls are.
“Second from the left,” I tell him. “Over the coffee maker.”
“Thanks.” He grabs a bowl, scoops in way too much mac and cheese, and hands it to me, along with a fork—he knows where those are, at least. “Figured you’d be hungry.”
I nod and take a forkful. “It’s been...a day.”
“I bet.” Will studies me, and I suddenly feel very awkward, shoveling mac and cheese into my face.
“You know, it’s hard to eat when I’m being supervised,” I mutter. Will straightens up, bowing his head apologetically.
“My bad. I just wanted to make sure it’s...edible?” he says hopefully.
I stifle a laugh. It’s honestly beyond charming how worked up he is over a little mac and cheese.
“Perfect,” I say. “I can taste the artificial flavoring.”
Will nods. “Good. Do you want some...” He opens the fridge. “Sriracha? Chipotle tabasco? Mango chutney—”
“I’m good,” I say, actually laughing this time. “Really, it’s great as is.”
“Okay.” Will leans against the counter, arms folded, and consciously averting his eyes.
I laugh again, and it feels good to laugh. “You don’t have to not look at me. Just...relax.”
He works his jaw. “Easier said than done, given the circumstances.”
The dark shadow of what I’ve learned clouds my consciousness again. “Yeah.” I put down my fork, blow out a breath.
We stay like that, silent and not making eye contact, for a few moments.
“How could you be so stupid?” I cry, smacking my palms against the counter hard enough to rattle the fork. “How could you fucking do that, Dad?”
My chin’s quivering. I pin my wrists between my knees on the barstool, willing myself not to lose it again. Will looks up, concern etched on his features, and steps briskly to my back.
His hands are warm on my shoulders. I close my eyes.
“I’m so sorry, Maren.” His voice is husky, raw.
“You don’t need to be,” I whisper. “You had nothing to do with it.”
A few beats of silence pass. Will’s grip firms on my shoulders, just a little.
“Still,” he says at last. “I’m sorry.”
Something wet trails down my cheek. I’m crying. Goddammit.
I sniffle a little and wipe the tear away with the heel of my hand.
“I hate this,” I say. “I hate all of this. All this tragedy and lying and loss and...” I hiccup a sob and turn around to face Will. “Is this what it is? Is this what life is like? Just disappointment after disappointment?” I give my head a little shake. “Sorry. That’s a stupid question, but—”
“No, I get it.” His eyes burn into mine as he thumbs away another tear. “Do you want the truth, or do you want me to make you feel better?”
I breathe in hard. “The truth.”
“Sometimes, yes. Especially when you live a life like...ours.” Will’s face is intense, unwavering. “I can’t lie to you, Maren. It looks comfortable, and fun, but it’s not all jewelry heists and pool parties. Sometimes we have to make hard choices. Sometimes people get hurt. The powers that we have...” He trails off, shakes his head. “It’s more than just being shifters, really. We’re outlaws. Criminals. And if you stay here, then you are too.”
Stay. It’s still wild hearing anyone mention that idea, give voice to that possibility. Just a week ago, I never would have imagined it.
But I never could have imagined this. That my life would be like this.
I have nothing else. But even if I did...I’m not sure I could leave this behind.
In spite of myself, I smile, even laugh a little. Will looks alarmed.
“Sorry,” I say, brushing away the remnants of my tears. “It’s just...you lied to me.”
“I didn’t,” Will says hurriedly. “I told you the truth, like you asked.”
“I know, I know,” I say. “But you did make me feel better.”