Page 138 of Secrets (The Sins Trilogy 2)
Just to be safe, I Google the man’s name. He’s a real attorney, specializing in estate and family law in Los Angeles. His firm is large and prestigious, with high-net-worth clients.
Ugh, I’m just being paranoid. Sam’s gone. He can’t send me anything. The lawyer is legit, and he probably isn’t sending me anything creepy.
I run a box cutter along the clear tape. Inside is a small item covered in layers of bubble wrap. I open it slowly.
A music box falls into my lap. It’s small, no more than two inches square, and old, the enamel on its plain white cover slightly discolored and chipped in a corner. As I turn it in my hand, something rattles a bit, like a small part has come loose inside. The bottom has two initials—WS, which means nothing to me. After winding it, I open it, and it plays Debussy’s “Clair de lune,” the sound tinny and small. I close it, and the melody stops.
What’s this about?
I look at the bottom of the box and see a white envelope. I take out the letter inside and start reading.
Dear Ms. Smith,
My name is Joseph Lawrence, and I am a lawyer representing your late uncle, Mr. Sam Peacher. Please accept my sincerest condolences for your loss.
The enclosed is a music box Mr. Peacher wanted you to have upon his passing. It used to belong to his mother, Wilhelmina Smith. As you are a fan of Mozart sonatas, he thought you would appreciate it and keep it with you safely.
The rest is the typical closing, and I drop the letter back in the box. Resting my elbow on the desk, I prop my forehead in my hand. It’s so like Sam to misidentify the composer and the piece. Tears prickle in my eyes. Why did he have to die and leave me his mother’s music box? It’s such a worthless item, but also weirdly sentimental. Didn’t he hate me for staying in L.A.? Or refusing to manipulate Tony into helping Peacher & Son?
I should hate him for making me cry after doing his best to make my life as difficult as possible when I decided to quit traveling. But my mind keeps bringing up all the ways he tried to keep me safe—pulling me out of the submerged car, warning me about my emotional condition when I told him I wanted to try performing in public, encouraging and paying for my trips…
The tears that fall are bittersweet. Keeping my head down, I pluck a Kleenex and dab at my face. Sam’s dead. I can let go of our differences and just grieve, because a person I depended on for so long is gone in something as senseless as a hit-and-run accident.
