Page 123 of Make Me Sin (Bad Habit 2)
The room falls silent.
“Yes, that’s me. Who are you?”
Saul rises. “This is Mr. Wells, Chloe. A.J.’s attorney.”
Saul and Mr. Wells shake hands. “I got here as soon as I could,” says Wells, his voice subdued.
Saul replies, “Thank you for coming.” He looks at me. “There’s some paperwork for you.”
Hearing the word “paperwork” in relation to an attorney immediately raises my father’s hackles. He steps forward and demands, “What kind of paperwork?”
Looking around at all the people staring back at him, Wells uncomfortably adjusts his ti
e. He glances at me. “Is there somewhere more private we could talk?”
“Whatever you have to say you can say it in front of everyone. I’ll just tell them all anyway.”
Wells lifts a shoulder. “As you wish.” He crosses to the coffee table, sets down his briefcase, and opens it with a flick of his wrists. From it he pulls a bound black notebook. He holds it out to me. “Mr. Edwards’ estate planning documents.”
When I just stare at him silently, he adds, “Will, living trust, durable power of attorney, advance healthcare directive.” His voice softens. “He had a long time to prepare.”
With shaking hands, I take the binder. “What does it have to do with me?”
“You’re the beneficiary of his will, the trustee on the trust, which holds all his assets, including property, and his attorney-in-fact appointed to make financial and healthcare decisions on his behalf.”
When I just continue to stare at him, openmouthed, he sighs.
“If he can’t make decisions for himself, you’re authorized to make them for him, do you understand?”
Saul says gently, “For instance, if he’s . . . in a coma.”
In a flash, I understand. If it comes down to it, I’m the one responsible for making the decision whether or not to pull the plug.
My brother catches me just before my legs give out. As I clutch the binder to my chest, he drags me to a nearby chair.
“Someone get her some water,” Jamie barks.
“On it.” Brody runs from the room.
“Let me see that, Chloe.”
I numbly hand the binder to my father. He flips it open, scans the first few pages, then flips around to several tabbed sections, reading quickly, his finger skimming the page. After a moment, he mutters, “Jesus.”
“Thomas?” My mother’s voice pulls his attention back to the room, and everyone standing around waiting for him to speak.
He looks around, then back at me. “Well, you’ll never have to worry about money again, that’s for sure. He owns property all over the US. Looks like hotels, mostly.”
I close my eyes.
Was it empty a long time before you bought it?
Years. It was originally built as a resort hotel but never made it. I bought it because it looks how I feel.
Alone?
Corroded. Decayed.
I’m certain all the hotels in A.J.’s will are just like the one he lived in, lonely, abandoned places with checkered pasts. Birds of a feather, he’d said. Birds of a feather.
