Page 19 of Single Dad's Fake Bride
Graduated summa cum laude from UMass Amherst with a degree in elementary education and a minor in English literature.
Her teaching certificate was current and in good standing.
No criminal record, no outstanding warrants, no questionable associations.
But her financial picture was complicated.
Student loans totaling forty-two thousand dollars.
Credit cards maxed out but payments current.
Rent paid on time for the past eighteen months, though often in cash rather than check.
No car payments—the Honda was purchased used for three thousand dollars two years ago.
No savings account, no investments, no assets beyond basic household goods and a collection of books that probably wasn't worth insuring.
The investigator had been thorough but respectful, focusing on public records rather than personal intrusions.
What emerged was a portrait of someone working hard to stay afloat, someone who had never asked for help she didn't desperately need.
Janet Quinn presented a more complicated picture.
Divorced when Sadie was seven.
Multiple arrests for public intoxication, though nothing recent.
Three stints in rehabilitation programs over the past decade, none lasting longer than six months from what it seemed.
Currently unemployed and back on the bottle.
The report contained no judgments, only facts, but reading between the lines painted a clear story: Sadie had been supporting her mother financially and emotionally for years, sacrificing her own stability to keep someone else's life from completely falling apart.
She wasn't angling for social position because she barely had time to maintain her own life, let alone pursue ambitious networking.
She was exactly what she appeared to be—a dedicated teacher trying to build something meaningful from circumstances that would've broken someone with less determination.
I started the engine and drove away without knocking on her door.
And I wouldn't until I'd spoken with the executor and understood exactly what I would be asking her to agree to.
Theodore Blackwood had been my father's attorney for thirty years before Dad's death elevated him to executor status.
His office occupied the top floor of a colonial revival building in downtown Chatham, all dark wood and leather-bound lawbooks that probably hadn't been opened since the Carter administration.
"Harrison." He rose from behind his desk as his secretary showed me in. "This is unexpected. I hope there's been no change in your intentions regarding the inheritance."
"No change. But I need clarification on the marriage requirements."
I felt stiff and out of place here. My life was simple—a basic apartment on the north side of the city, clean transportation that got me where I needed to go, and an honest job that supplied what I needed.
Even walking the halls of Hawthorne felt out of place to me, too steeped in money and power.
His eyebrows rose slightly. "You have someone in mind?"
"Possibly." I took the seat across from his desk, noting the way he immediately reached for a legal pad.
Everything would be documented, filed, potentially used as evidence if this arrangement ever came under legal scrutiny.
