Money—or the fear of having none—can do horrible things to good people. I’ve witnessed it firsthand on many occasions.
My phone dings from my pocket, and I slip it out to read a text from one of my sisters.
DEMI: Hey, come over tonight and hang out with us. Royal wants to beat you in Battleship. He says you owe him a game.
ME: Yeah, from fifteen years ago. Tell him to let it go. It’s in the past.
DEMI: He says you’re just afraid to lose.
ME: I never lose.
DEMI: He wants to know if you’re forfeiting.
ME: Never. Give me an hour.
I set my phone aside and click through the overabundance of Veronica images flooding my screen. They’re all the same—her body angled, her hand on one bony hip, and her red lips drawn into a sly smile.
When I’ve had my fill, I close out of that tab and do a Google search on Serena, only I’m not prepared for the headlines that fill my screen.
A SOCIALITE FALLS FROM GRACE
THE TRUTH ABOUT HEIRESS SERENA RANDALL
WHAT CAUSED SERENA RANDALL’S MENTAL BREAKDOWN?
TIMELINE OF SERENA RANDALL’S PUBLIC COLLAPSE
DISGRACED HEIRESS INVOLVED IN BITTER BREAK-UP—THREATENS OWN LIFE
“Jesus, Serena.” I muffle my words with the palm of my hand, raking my five o’clock shadow. I right click everything, opening up at least a dozen tabs, and prepare to inhale it all.
According to these articles, approximately ten weeks ago, Serena walked in on her fiancé in bed with not one but two other women. Friends of hers, no less. Later that week, she took a handful of pills and chased them down with a bottle of red and had her driver drop her off at JFK. While there, she requested a first-class ticket on the next flight to London’s Heathrow airport but was denied due to lack of identification. And her obvious inebriation.
Airport security was called, and Serena proceeded to physically resist them. She yelled profanities, caused a scene, and ripped out her hair extensions. Shortly thereafter, she was taken and placed in an involuntary psychiatric hold after threatening to harm herself, and her stepmother apparently rushed to be by her side.
A mental health evaluation was ordered and Serena was committed for eight days. Two days after being released, she drove her car off a century-old bridge in a small town north of the Belcourt estate. Apparently, the water beneath the bridge wasn’t deep enough to sweep her away, but the impact was enough to cause her to hit her head on the steering wheel and fall unconscious.
A local farmer passing by found her and saved her.
After a weeklong stay in an undisclosed, private psychiatric facility in upstate New York, she was released and sent to live at the family’s Belcourt residence, where she proceeded to make a slew of expensive purchases. Italian luxury cars. Diamonds. Couture. Offers to purchase real estate sight-unseen. She spent over eleven million dollars over the course of four days.
Her stepmother requested an emergency conservatorship, requesting to be Serena’s conservator and being denied due to unspecified allegations given on behalf of Serena by her attorney at the time.
The judge approved a conservator of her estate, someone to manage Serena’s trust fund and the allocation of funds for the maintenance and upkeep of Belcourt Manor during her tenure. Rosewood and Rosewood, LLP was referred by a judge who attended law school with my father, and the Randalls agreed.
I close the lid to my laptop and flip through the stack of papers on my desk, searching for her mental health evaluation. The doctor’s notes mention her suicidal ideation and refer to her “manic and reckless” behavior, but there’s no mention of a bipolar diagnosis. There’s a note referring to acute anxiety and the possibility of short-term, situational depression, but it clearly states Serena has no history of mental health diagnoses. It also looks like the doctor prescribed some run-of-the-mill antidepressants, prescription sleep aids, and benzos as needed.
No wonder she’s feeling out of her element these days.
My phone dings from my pocket once more, and I find another text from Demi.
DEMI: Are you coming or what? It’s been over an hour.
I pull in a long breath and exhale, checking the time. Shit. She’s right. It’s been over an hour, and I’ve been so immersed in these Serena articles I didn’t realize it.
I text her back, telling her I’m on my way and click off the banker’s lamp behind my laptop.
A minute later, I’m driving east of town, where my sister and her boyfriend live while he finishes law school. Twenty minutes later, I pull into the drive.
Demi greets me at the door before I have a chance to ring the bell, her arms wrapping around my shoulders as she pulls me inside.
“You act like you haven’t seen me in ages.” I step out of my shoes once I’m inside.
“It’s just makes me really, really happy when we’re all hanging out again. It’s just like old times.” She does a happy skip, and I follow her to the living room where my childhood best friend has two plastic Battleship boards set up and ready to go.
“What’s up with you lately?” Demi plops down on the sofa and tucks a leg beneath her. “Any exciting trials I should know about?”
I simper. “If there were any ongoing cases, I wouldn’t be able to tell you anything, but nowadays, everything is settled out of court. Less expense that way. There’s not a huge demand for trial lawyers in Rixton County, believe it or not.”
Once upon a time, our father was a county prosecutor, but the grueling hours stole him away from his family, so over the years, he established Rosewood, LLP, and I joined on after law school. Now we do a little bit of everything, but his reputation from his days in the courtroom has solidified his reputation as one of the most sought-after trial lawyers in the state. I tend to get the cases that trickle down, the ones he can’t be bothered with. And I accept them with a smile on my face, because that’s how you deal with Robert Rosewood. You get what you get, and you don’t complain until you’ve earned the privilege.