Page 25 of After the Chase

He's quiet for a moment, studying my face. I know what he's looking for, some crack in my composure, some hint of suppressed emotion, but he won't find it.

"What about the inheritance?" he asks.

"Substantial, apparently, not that I need any more money. I'll need to go to Boston to handle it just so they’ll leave me alone. People are fucking annoying, always disturbing you, wanting something."

"Well…it’s what families do when they grieve, it’s a process. But I get it, we'll go to Boston."

"We'll try and leave tomorrow."

Two Days Later - Boston

My mother's penthouse is exactly what I expected. Large, expensive, utterly devoid of warmth, just like me and her. The place was designed to impress rather than be comfortable.

"Have you been here before?" Chase asks.

"No. After she left before I killed the old man, she never mentioned where she was going."

"I’m sorry, Noah. I wish you could have had a loving home and childhood.”

“Why? I don’t have any regrets. It’s better to not have love in your life, it blinds people from reality.”

“That’s depressing, and not true.”

“That’s because you like your rose-tinted glasses. But you will see in time.”

He rolls his eyes at me as I continue to walk through the rooms, with Chase following. We enter the living room where I can imagine my mother may have entertained guests or plotted evil against someone who crossed her, and I look around, unimpressed.

"Noah?" Chase's voice pulls me back. "You okay?"

"It’s such a bland place. She never did have style."

"Okay…”

We continue through the penthouse until we reach her bedroom. Again, very cold and not a lot about this room. I can feel the sadness coming off Chase in waves. He’s too damnemotional and desperate for this to be the moment I’m cured. It irks me.

"Don't psychoanalyze me, Chase, I can feel you doing it. I’m not going to break like you want."

"I'm not psychoanalyzing you or wanting you to break, Noah. I'm just sorry you grew up like this."

"You need to stop apologizing for something that doesn’t matter. It doesn’t affect me, so don’t let it affect you,” I say, and he looks at me with a defeated look.

“Fine, I’ll keep my mouth shut. How long until the realtor gets here?”

“They said midday, so any minute now.”

He nods then wanders around looking at every item on display. It’s cute. But I just wanna get out of here and start to live our lives again.

The lawyer's office is downtown, and exactly what you would expect from a prestigious law firm, expensive dark wood and leather chairs. Patricia Whitmore is in her fifties, professional, and looks like she has had a day from hell. Her sandy blonde hair is coming out of what may have been a tight bun on her head and her glasses are wonky on her nose. She smiles the same fake way as me as she shakes my hand with the appropriate sympathy. It’s all bullshit, she just wants her cut of the inheritance. These people don’t care about clients, they are no different from tax firms or debt collectors. Cash is their only language.

"Mr. Bryson, thank you for coming. Again, my condolences."

"No need with the fake pleasantries, I just want to get this out of the way. This is my husband, Chase."

She blinks, then nods before briefly shaking Chase’s hand.

"Of course. Please, sit."

Chase and I sit across from her desk and she opens a file folder, pulling out documents.