Page 17

Reggie adjusts his glasses and looks at me with the first expression that seems to require my full attention.

“As you know, Henry’s holdings were not consolidated under one umbrella. We have the Riverview property, The Man Cave, other rentals, the gallery space, and several smaller interests, some held personally and some through separate entities. There is also the Puerto Vallarta property.”

Renny used to say Puerto Vallarta like it had a little diamond inside it.

“Okay,” Jessica says, writing.

“The will leaves his controlling interest to Paul, with one clause we’ll need to examine as part of the standard review.”

“Clause?” Jessica asks.

Reggie scans the page. “Language providing for the division of certain business-related assets in the event of any known biological children.”

The room loses its edges. Not dramatically, but for one second, everything in my periphery goes fuzzy.

Jessica gives a short, confused laugh. “Known children?”

“It’s not uncommon language,” Reggie says, dismissive in a way that’s supposed to comfort. “Especially in older documents that were revised rather than fully rewritten. Boilerplate, essentially.”

I reach for my water glass and lift it before my hand can decide whether it’s shaking. The water is too cold. It hurts my teeth.

“To be clear, I’m not aware of any children. Henry never disclosed any to me. If none exist, the clause is irrelevant.” Reggie looks between us, smiles. “Paperwork.”

Jessica writes something down. Her shoulder relaxes.

Mine does not.

“Paul?” Jessica says.

I look at her.

She’s waiting for confirmation. Just something small to keep the meeting moving. No, of course not. Don’t be ridiculous. Renny with a child, can you imagine?

I can.

“None that I know,” I say.

It’s not a lie. Not exactly.

Knowing of someone and knowing someone are different things. It’s a cheap distinction, and I hear it cheapen me as soon as I make it.

Reggie nods. Jessica nods. The pen scratches across her paper a few more times.

All I hear is Renny’s voice, precise in a way he almost never was in life.

There’s something I should have told you years ago.

And beneath that, quieter, worse:

Please contact Linda.

The shoebox was on the top shelf of Renny’s side of the closet, pushed behind two stacks of old sweaters that hadn’t fit him since before we had wi-fi. I was standing on a step stool, still in my pajamas at two in the afternoon, because grief had already made time irrelevant.

I had told myself I was looking for something for the eulogy. A note or letter. A photo I had forgotten. Some small private thing that could help me stand in front of everyone who loved Renny and say something true without telling them too much.

This shoebox was from a pair of loafers he bought in Chicago and wore twice before deciding they made him look like “a villain in a boating movie.” On the lid, in Renny’s messy block letters, were four words: OPEN AFTER I’M GONE.

“You dramatic ass,” I said.