Beckett took his name off everything—dismantled our joint revocable trust. The house, our savings, even the boys’ college accounts. All of it now sits solely under mine.
There’s only one account still tied to him—just one.
And the balance?
Doing some frantic mental math, I feel like it’s close to the total of all those bonuses.
It feels like protection. But it also feels like a confession.
My pulse hammers as I look up at the man who was supposed to make things clearer for me. “Why would he—?” I start to ask, but my voice dies halfway out.
Nick doesn’t offer theories. Instead, he calmly slides a small brown envelope across the desk.
“This is the key to his apartment,” he says. “Beckett asked me to give it to you. He said you should take whatever you need from there.”
I blink at the envelope, then at Nick. “His apartment?”
“Maybe there’s something there that’ll help make sense of this,” he says gently, though there’s a finality to his tone. Like his part in this is done.
I nod, barely. Then thank him—still trying to piece this together—and walk out of the office with the envelope clutched in my hand and more questions than I walked in with.
I don’t go home.
Instead, I set my GPS for an address I’ve never visited. The place Beckett had been calling home for the three weeks before the cruise.
The complex is clean and quiet. Unremarkable. I park, ignoring the curious glance of someone walking their dog, and wander the walkway until I find the right unit.
The key shakes in my hand as I fumble with the lock. I don’t even think to knock until I’m halfway through the door.
Not that it matters.
Because when I finally find the switch and flick on the light, it echoes with silence.
A barely furnished room. A couch. A lamp. A few neatly stacked boxes against one wall.
It feels more like a storage room than a home.
Like he didn’t live here. He merely existed here.
And I realize—I’ve stepped into Beckett’s in-between.
So why, why would he give me the key?
With no idea what I’m looking for, I venture in slowly.
I cross the room and open the drawer of the nearest end table. Empty.
The other one? Also empty.
My chest tightens, frustration flickering along with determination. I move faster—into the kitchen. The drawers here hold plastic-wrapped utensils, a few takeout menus, an unopened sponge. Nothing personal. Nothing him.
I flip through a half-used notebook—blank pages.
I toss it back onto the counter and pivot.
Down the hallway, the bedroom waits.
This is where my steps slow. It’s the only room that shows any real signs of Beckett’s personality. A comb on the dresser. A wrapper—Heath bar. His favorite. A few weights stacked neatly in the corner.
