Page 36 of Mourner for Hire
“For the love of God, Annabelle,yes!”
“Why?”
“Because I’d like to know if I’m certifiably insane or not while I drown in my own sorrows and watch Netflix.”
She eyes me suspiciously. “You’re overwhelmed.”
“And you are insane!” I accuse, to which she scoffs.
“Can dead people be insane?”
I squint at her like she’s brighter than the sun and stupider than a possum crossing the road. “Probably!”
She shrugs. “Look, I get it. This is a lot?—”
“To say the least.”
“—but when you’re done, you’ll understand.” She stands and starts walking through the door.
Again with the cryptic BS.
“Why can’t you just tell me what this is all for? Or better yet, why didn’t you just tell me before you died? You had the opportunity.”
She sighs. “Because this isn’t something I can tell you. It’s just something I hope you can find.”
I roll my eyes, completely over the crypticity.
“Find what?”
She swallows hard. “You’ll see.”
ELEVEN
DOMINIC
“We need to contest the will.”
“Good to see you too, Dunner. How ya holding up?”
Jerry “Sully” Sullivan makes no attempt to excuse my crass greeting as soon as I enter his office while he holds his phone to his ear.
He is a cliché of a lawyer in a small town. One office with creaky floors and overstuffed leather chairs, and a receptionist out front with teased hair who has been working here since the eighties. Sully is in his mid-fifties with a full head of dyed-black hair, courtesy of Rogaine, in a gray suit and a pot belly.
But he’s loyal and good at his job. He also dated my mom in the seventh grade and never fell out of love so he always gave us fifteen percent off per consultation hour so my mother remained his loyal client… all the way down to the drafting and execution of her will.
I storm across the office and flop into one of the leather chairs on either side of his oversized cherry wood desk.
“All right, Samuel. Send over the contract, and I’ll have it reviewed by Monday, okay?” he’s saying on the phone as a flushed Lynnette stumbles over her heels atthe doorway.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Sullivan. I stepped away from the desk for one minute, and didn’t know he’d slip in?—”
Sully holds up a hand, silencing her, though not unkindly. “No worries, Lynnette. You know I’ll always make time for Annabelle’s son.”
Lynnette offers an apologetic smile in my direction and then closes the door, the cream miniblinds swinging against the glass window on the door.
“Sully, we have to contest the will,” I repeat.
Sully cracks his knuckles and leans over his desk. “And why is that? The will is ironclad, son. I drafted it a year before she died. God rest her soul.”
