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The restaurant is packed enough to make private talk feel public. The air smells like fish sauce and hot broth. Usually, Vietnam Kitchen calms me down. You walk in, order, eat, and nobody cares what’s up with you.

Today, even the menu feels demanding.

Kev sits and pulls a folder from the chair beside him. Not a file, but an actual folder, like the ones we had in school. Some cartoon character presents his fist on the cover.

For fuck’s sake.

“Sorry I’m, uh, casual,” he says, gesturing at his outfit like it’s still a concern. “Had a thing this morning.”

“A thing?”

“Pickup.”

“Behind the high school?”

“Yeah.”

That checks.

He looks down at himself. “This is supposed to be moisture-wicking.”

“Great. Let’s wick through this paperwork.”

Kev laughs too hard, then stops too fast.

Becca swears he passed the bar.

A server drops water in front of us. Kev reaches for his immediately and drains half.

“So.” He opens the school folder, and I’m relieved it contains documents and not drawings. “This is complicated.”

“That your official legal opinion?”

“No. I mean, yes. But more specifically, it’s complicated in how it’s structured.”

I sit back.

Kev flips through two pages and taps one with his finger. “There’s just—ha—just a lot to this.”

The server comes back. Kev orders before I can look at the menu. Some vermicelli thing with pork. I point at his menu and say, “Same,” because I don’t have the room in my head.

Kev waits until the server leaves.

“Paul and Henry had almost two decades to set up ownership arrangements. Business entities. Beneficiary designations. Joint accounts. Transfer-on-death stuff.”

“Renny,” I say, like it matters. “Not Henry.”

“Right. Sorry. Renny.”

“Basically,” Kev says, “most of the personal property and cash is locked down. Very hard to touch.”

“Hard.”

“Like impossible.”

He exhales and rubs both hands over his face.

“Okay. Personal property? Bad. Cash? Bad. House? Probably bad, depending on title and how it was held, but I’m still digging. Investments? Same.”