Page 89 of Captive of Outlaws

Whatdon’tI 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—”

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