Page 9 of No Turning Back
About an hour later, when I’m mentally checking out and pretending to drink from a long-empty glass, I spot a man striding toward us, wearing a sharp black suit, patent shoes, andthe unmistakable air of someone who’s rehearsed their entrance. Luis Cooper.
“Ladies,” he says, smiling gently as he approaches. “Sorry to interrupt, but I figured it was time.”
“Luis,” Mom greets, standing up a little straighter. “Thank you for coming.”
“Of course. Bernard was a good friend. And a terrible poker player,” he adds with a wink.
I manage a weak smile. “Luis, I didn’t know you still practiced.”
“Oh, I do. You never fully retire from the law, you just start declining more calls. But for your dad?” He places a hand to his chest. “He was a dear friend. Which unfortunately means I’m also here in a official capacity.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You’re reading the will?”
Luis nods. “Soon. I’m the executor. Your dad had… thoughts. Things he wanted said, distributed, handled properly. Preferably before the gossip machine gets ahead of the truth.”
Mom and I exchange a look.
“There’s a lot in there,” he says carefully. “But don’t worry. I’ll walk you both through it when you’re ready.”
“Are we expecting any surprises?” I ask.
Luis gives a practiced non-answer, the kind lawyers specialize in. “Let’s just say Bernard wasn’t the kind of man to leave a blank page behind.”
He pats my arm, then turns to speak to someone across the room.
Mom exhales slowly.
“Do you think she’s in the will?” I ask, softly.
She shakes her head. “I don’t believe your father had any idea she existed.”
“But…” I press, already hearing the hesitation in her voice.
“But, nothing,” she says, voice low and wary, “I’m just tired.”
I decide not to push. But something in her eyes guilt, maybe, or fear, makes my stomach twist.
Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned about my parents over the years, it’s thatnothingbetween them ever stays simple.
Chapter Three
Quinn
Attorney Luis Cooper clears his throat and adjusts his glasses, the leather folder in front of him already worn at the edges. We’re seated in his office with dark panelled walls, bookshelf lined with legal tomes, and a ticking wall clock that somehow makes the silence louder.
Just three of us.
Me, my mother, and Luis, my father’s old friend and longtime attorney.
Not exactly the full courtroom drama I’d imagined after Mom’s warning, but the tension in the air makes up for the lack of crowd.
"All right," Mr Cooper begins, his voice gentle but professional, “this won’t take long. Your father, Dr. Bernard Malcolm Barnes, executed this will four years ago. It is, to my knowledge, the most recent and legally binding version.”
He opens the folder and begins reading.
“I, Bernard Malcolm Barnes, being of sound mind and body, do hereby declare this to be my last will and testament…”
The formalities pass in a blur, the usual legal jargon melting into the background. My mind drifts, cataloguing every minor sound in the room, the steady ticking of the clock on the wall, the creak of Mom’s purse strap, the way Mr Cooper’s voice catches on certain words like they matter more than others.
