They’ve been eating from the palm of her hand like baby birds ever since.
Eudora’s only doing what she’s told. But it’s truly unfortunate, because until Veronica came around, I loved Eudora like family.
She was my family.
“Do you think I was too hard on him? God, he’s probably thinking all kinds of colorful thoughts about me now.” I chuckle, amused.
“You give everyone a hard time the first time you meet them.” Eudora shrugs. “It’s what you do, Serena. You test them. See how much you can get away with. You’ve been doing it since you were a little girl. Believe me. I speak from experience.”
Eudora runs her hand along my forehead, as if my supposed condition is physical and not psychological.
“Goodnight.” I pull the covers up to my neck.
She chuckles, amused. “It’s only four o’clock, dear.”
“Goodnight for now.”
“I’ll wake you around seven. You’re due for your medication then.”
I close my eyes and pretend to sleep until I hear the click of the door. A quick run of my hand beneath my pillow, and I find the tablets from earlier. I meant to flush them, but when Eudora came bursting in here to tell me my new attorney was here to see me, I never got the chance.
I’d completely spaced on my meeting with Mr. Rosewood, but to be fair, it wasn’t intentional. These meds sometimes make me forgetful.
Eudora insisted on sending him away, but I wouldn’t allow it. Someone from “the outside” is a godsend these days.
Waiting another minute to be safe, I sweep the pills into my hand before tiptoeing to the en-suite and depositing them in the pristine toilet. A quick flush and they’re gone forever, lost in the antique bowels of this ancient mansion.
Skipping the last dose made me feel slightly more coherent, like my wits are coming back piece by piece. And I want my wits. I need my wits. I can’t stay holed up behind these stone walls like some criminal any longer.
I have to get out of here. I have to get my financial freedom back. My independence. My good name. And I’ll do whatever it takes.
Chapter 3
Derek
“Don’t stay too late.” My legal secretary, Gladys, lingers in my doorway, her heavy purse weighing down her hunched shoulder. “Want me to pick you up some dinner and bring it back?”
She checks her watch, and I check mine.
Seven o’clock on a Friday night.
If it were my weekend with Haven, I’d have been long gone by now, rolling around on the living room floor with my favorite four-year-old, playing Barbies or her favorite Doc McStuffins matching game while we wait for our half-cheese, half-supreme pizza to arrive. It’s our Friday night tradition.
Well, every other Friday night.
I live for my weekends with Haven.
It’s probably why I work so much. Holing up at the law firm and burying myself in my career makes me forget about the sound of silence waiting for me at home most nights of the week.
“I’m just finishing up here.” I give her a tight-lipped nod, and she swipes her hand at me.
“Haven’t heard that one a million times.” She jingles her car keys and shuffles down the tiled hall. The clunk of the front door and clink of the lock echo through the empty building a moment later.
Serena Randall’s court order rests before me, along with the rest of her file. I’ve been poring over the details since I got back from Belcourt Manor this afternoon.
Upon first glance, she seems fine. A little fatigued. A little snippy. But that’s understandable. Most cases involving a conservator are a bit more extreme than hers. Generally, people who are mentally or physically incapacitated need conservators, not starchy heiresses with a flair for dramatic eyebrow arches and blunt honesty.
I rub my tired eyes and let the papers fall to my desk before pulling my laptop closer. Armed with nothing but time and Google, I intend on digging deep and piecing this entire thing together. I have a feeling getting information from her will be like pulling teeth. That’s nothing that can’t be remedied with some good, old-fashioned cyber stalking.
I start with a search on her stepmother, Veronica Kensington-Randall, and then it hits me. I have heard of her before. She was on some legal drama in the nineties. My father was obsessed with that show. He used to record it on VHS and watch the episodes over and over, quoting the characters every chance he got.
She was beautiful in her prime. Long, shapely legs. A California tan. Glossy, bleach-blonde locks. A beauty pageant smile.
According to Wikipedia, she’s been married four times, thrice divorced. Looks like she likes them old and ailing.
I click on “images” and pull up a slew of recent ones. It appears these days she’s combatting fifty with fillers and Spanx. Looks as though, until recently, she was rarely seen without her loving husband, Harold Randall, who is easily old enough to be her father.
Classic.
This is not uncommon, especially along the old-moneyed, blue-blooded coast of New England.
Older man takes a younger trophy wife. Children feel threatened. Wife wants to ensure her stake in the family estate. Legal drama ensues.
I smirk.
This’ll be easy.
As soon as Serena’s feeling one hundred percent, we’ll just have to prove she’s of sound mind, and then I’ll personally see to it that her stake in the family estate is still intact, all of her financials will be back in her control, and I’ll be on my way. Estate law is a little hobby of mine anyway. Nothing pleases me more than seeing to it that greedy, selfish assholes do not persevere.