anything.
‘Thank you, dear,’ she said, taking the hot mug from my hands. ‘And your trip was all right? You have everything you need?’
‘Everything’s fine,’ I said, sitting.
‘Good, then we can get to business. I have a copy of the will itself here. You’ll want to keep that for your files. There is, I’m afraid, going to be a lot of paperwork to get through. Some of the foreign properties are complex, but don’t worry, we’ll make it.’
‘Okay,’ I said, wondering what she was talking about.
‘This is an inventory of the most difficult transfers. The good news is that Eric arranged most of the liquid assets as pay-on-death, so the tax situation is fairly straightforward, and we get to avoid probate. The rest of the estate is more complicated. I’ve also brought keys to the other Denver properties. I have a copy of the death certificate, so you only need to fill out a signature card at the bank before you can do anything with the funds. Do you have enough to see you through for a day or two?’
She handed me a typewritten sheet of paper. I ran my finger down the list. Addresses in London, Paris, Bombay, Athens …
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I don’t want to be a pain in the ass, but I don’t understand. What is all this?’
‘The inventory of the difficult transfers,’ she said, slowing down the words a little bit, like maybe I hadn’t understood them before. ‘Some of the foreign properties are going to require more paperwork.’
‘These are all Uncle Eric’s?’ I said. ‘He has a house in London?’
‘He has property all over the world, dear. Didn’t you know?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I didn’t. What am I … I mean, what am I supposed to do with this stuff?’
The lawyer put down her pen. A crease had appeared between her brows. I sipped the peppermint tea and it scalded my tongue.
‘You and your uncle didn’t discuss any of this?’ she said.
I shook my head. I could feel my eyes growing abnormally wide. ‘I thought he was gay,’ I said. It occurred to me just how stunningly underqualified I was to execute anybody’s will, much less something complex with a lot of paperwork.
The lawyer sat back in her seat, considering me like I had just appeared and she was maybe not so impressed with what she saw.
‘Your uncle was a very rich man,’ she said. ‘He left all his assets specifically and exclusively to you. And you had no idea that was his intention?’
‘We didn’t talk much,’ I said. ‘He left it to me? Are you sure? I mean, thanks, but are you sure?’
‘The majority of his titles are already jointly in your names. And you’re certain he never mentioned this?’
‘Never.’
The lawyer sighed.
‘Ms. Heller,’ she said. ‘You are a very rich young woman.’
I blinked.
‘Um,’ I said. ‘Okay. What scale are we talking about here?’
She told me: total worth, liquid assets, property.
‘Well,’ I said, putting the mug down. ‘Holy shit.’
I think lottery winners must feel the same way. I followed everything the lawyer said, but about half of it washed right back out of my mind. The world and everything in it had taken on a kind of unreality. I wanted to laugh or cry or curl up in a ball and hug myself. I didn’t—did not—want to wake up and find out it had all been a dream.
We talked for about two hours. We made a list of things I needed to do, and she loaned me six hundred dollars—‘to keep me in shoes’—until I could get to the bank and jump through the hoops that would give me access to enough money to do pretty much anything I wanted. She left a listing of Eric’s assets about a half inch thick, and keys to the other Denver properties: two storage facilities and an apartment in what she told me was a hip and happening neighborhood.
I closed the door behind her when she left and sank down to the floor. The atrium tiles were cold against my palms. Eric Alexander Heller, my guardian uncle, left me more than I’d dreamed of. Money, security, any number of places that I could live in if I wanted to.
Everything, in fact, but an explanation.
I took myself back to the kitchen table and read the will. Legal jargon wasn’t my strong suit, but from what I could tell, it was just what the lawyer had said. Everything he had owned was mine. No one else’s. No discussion. Now that I was alone and starting to get my bearings, about a thousand questions presented themselves. Why leave everything to me? Why hadn’t he told me about any of it? How had he made all this money?
And, top of the list, what was someone worth as much as a small nation doing in a bar in the shitty part of Denver, and did all the money that had just dropped into my lap have anything to do with why he’d been killed?
I took out the keys she’d left me. A single house key shared a ring with a green plastic tag with an address on Inca Street. Two storage keys for two different companies.
If I’d had anyone to talk to, I’d have called them. My parents, a friend, a boyfriend, anyone. A year ago, I would have had a list half as long as my arm. The world changes a lot in a year. Sometimes it changes a lot in a day.
I walked back to the bedroom and looked at my clothes, the ghost of my discomfort with the lawyer still haunting me. If I was going to go face Christ only knew what, I wasn’t going in a T-shirt. I took one of the white shirts out of the closet, held it close to my face, and breathed in. It didn’t smell like anything at all. I stripped off my shirt, found a simple white tee in Eric’s dresser, and put myself together in a good white men’s button-down. It classed up the jeans, and if it was a little too big, I could roll up the sleeves and still look more confident than I did in my own clothes. More confident than I felt.
I felt a little weird, wearing a dead man’s shirt. But it was mine now. He’d given it to me. I had the ultimate hand-me-down life. The thought brought a lump to my throat.
‘Come on, little tomato,’ I told the key ring. ‘You and me against the world.’
I called a taxi service, went out to the curb to wait, and inside forty-five minutes I was on Inca Street, standing in front of the mysterious apartment.
2
In the middle of the afternoon there wasn’t much foot traffic. The address was a warehouse complex converted into living space for the Brie and wine set. Five stories of redbrick with balconies at each level. Tasteful plants filled the three feet between the knee-high wrought iron fence and the walls. According to the paperwork, the apartment Eric owned—the one I owned—was valued at half a million.
I tried to look like I belonged there as I walked in and found my way to the elevators. It was like sneaking into a bar; I didn’t belong there, but I did. I kept expecting someone to stop me, to ask for my ID, to check my name against a list and throw me out.
Why, I asked myself, does someone have a house and an apartment both in the same city? It wasn’t like he could sleep in two beds at once. Maybe this was his getaway. Maybe it was where his lover stayed, assuming he had one.
The elevator chimed, a low, reassuring bell, like someone clearing their throat. I stepped out, checked the number on the key ring, and followed the corridor down to my left. I started to knock, then stopped.
I stood there, silent, my breath fast. The door shone like lacquer. I could see my reflection in it, blurred and imprecise. I put the key in the lock and turned. I felt the bolt open, but I didn’t hear it.
The inside of the apartment was gorgeous and surreal. Wooden floors that seemed to glow, bronze fixtures, windows that made the city outside seem like it had been arranged to be seen from this vantage point. The ceilings were raw beams and exposed ductwork so stylish they looked obvious. Books were stacked on the
