A few blocks away, I climbed into my car, peeling off my gloves and wiping my sweaty palms on my pants. I pulled out my phone and dialed Sterling.
“It’s done.”
“Good,” he replied and hung up.
That was it. No praise. No congratulations.
I stared at my phone for a few minutes before tossing it on the passenger seat. I’d just proven myself, and it still wasn’t enough.
That was my first job for The Agency, my audition. Sterling had the connections and got me in with no questions asked.
“Nairobi.”
Kenya’s voice broke through my thoughts. I looked up to see her and her handful of friends in the sitting room, staring at me. She sniffed as she dabbed at her eyes.
“You just gonna stand there like a corpse and not say anything to anyone?”
I smiled tightly and walked into the room, not bothering to take off my shoes, knowing it’d annoy her. Sterling would’ve hated this drama—all these women hovering around my mother, pretending they cared. His will was clear: he wanted to be cremated, no church service, just a small memorial, and his burial flag next to the urn. That’s it. All this other shit was for show, not for him.
Kenya gestured to the woman sitting closest to her. “You remember Mrs. Covington?”
“I don’t.”
Mrs. Covington gave me a soft, pitying smile. “It’s been almost twenty years, dear. I remember when you were still in high school.”
I nodded, giving her nothing else. I hoped my presence would make them uncomfortable enough to leave. I didn’t feel like sitting around for small talk.
Kenya cleared her throat and stood. “Let me walk you ladies out. Thank you all so much for coming by.”
The group murmured their condolences as they gathered their bags and coats. I stepped aside, watching as my mother exchanged cheek kisses and promised to do lunch soon. I waited with my arms folded until the door finally shut and Kenya leaned against it, letting out a long sigh.
“Lord, I thought they’d never leave,” she muttered.
I raised an eyebrow and flopped down on the couches. “You invited them.”
“People expect to sit with you when a man like your father dies. It’s just what’s done,” she said as she rolled her shoulders.
“They didn’t even know him like that.”
That earned me a sharp look, but she didn’t argue. She moved past me and into the kitchen and returned with two glasses of wine. She slid one across the coffee table toward me.
“So,” she said. “I assume you’ll want to go over the financials.”
I reached for my glass, sipped, and grimaced. Chardonnay. I hated Chardonnay. I set it down but tried to keep the irritation off my face. “What accounts do you know about?”
She frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Bank accounts, Kenya. Safe deposit boxes, offshore accounts. Anything that had his name on it.”
She stared at me like I was speaking a foreign language. “Your father handled all of that,” she said, gesturing loosely with her wine glass. “He had a financial advisor—some man downtown. I never really paid much attention.”
“So, you have no idea where anything is?”
“I have the will, which you saw, and the deed to the house. There’s the joint account I used for groceries, and my personal things. That’s all I ever had access to.”
I ran my tongue over my teeth and chuckled. “So, basically, I’m gonna be here for weeks trying to figure this crap out.”
“You don’t have to make it sound like I’m incompetent,” she snapped, her brown cheeks flushing.
