Free Nora & Kettle by Lauren Nicolle Taylor

supported themselves. Thinking about the fact that my father is a public defender and how we live, I guess it makes sense that the money came from her. Mr. Inkham raises an eyebrow at my stilted reaction. “Your mother had a large amount of family money that upon her death was to go to her husband, er, your father…” I realize my shoulders have sagged, my head is hanging by a thread, and I try to force myself to sit up straight. “Your mother came to me at the beginning of the year and asked me to change her will. She requested that most of her inheritance, save a sufficient living allowance, be put into yours and your sister’s name for you to claim either when you marry or turn twenty-one, whichever comes first.” He delicately hands a piece of paper to me. I take it like it may disintegrate in my grasp. He points with his index finger to an amount of money so large my jaw actually drops.
    “All this will be mine?” I stammer, underlining the number again and again with my eyes. It glows red, a prize… a price.
    He leans back in the chair and smiles sadly. “Yes, it will be yours and your sister’s. Half to you when you turn twenty-one, and the other half to her when she does the same.”
    My feet curl under as I form the question, “Does my father know about this?” The paper feels poisonous, slicing my fingertips. A reward I can’t claim may as well be punishment.
    Mr. Inkham shakes his head slowly as he contemplates his answer. “No, not yet, but his lawyers have contacted me. I won’t be able to delay them finding out for very long. I’m sorry.” He acts like he knows.
    It’s struggling to sink in. The information is looking for a hiding place in my head and failing. “So my father will get none of her fortune save a living allowance?”
    He crosses his legs, uncrosses them, and pats his hair down. “That is correct, Miss Deere.”
    It makes me smile although it shouldn’t. His anger is going to shake the walls of this house when he finds out. My voice quivers a little when I ask, “What do you need from me, a signature?”
    Mr. Inkham leans forward and places a soft hand over my jittery fingers. I withdraw sharply. His eyes warm when they regard me, and he gives a small nod. “I don’t need anything from you, dear. I just came here to prepare you for what’s ahead, to war…” He averts his eyes and doesn’t finish. His mouth is suddenly hard and sucked in, a bitter taste on his tongue.
    Warn me. You came here to warn me.
    He packs the papers away and clasps his case.
    “Is there anything else?” I lean forward in my chair, my starved eyes ready to swallow the room. I’m hoping for a letter, a note, anything that might explain her reasons. Honestly, I’m looking for an apology.
    “I’m sorry, Miss Deere. I truly am. Your mother, she was…” Again, he doesn’t finish. He’s holding secrets in his mouth, words that keep pummeling his lips to get out.
    A tear is working its way out of my eye. I’m battered with the truth. I don’t understand what’s happening, and there is no way to get any answers. I lift my face to the ceiling in an attempt to stop the overwhelmed feelings from pouring out of my eyes. The plaster roses on the ceiling seem to crawl out from the middle of the room like spiders, and I want to grab at a leg and pull it from the plaster. I want to find a hole and pull myself through. Climb up, up, up, into the dust and spider webs.
    “So what do I do?” I ask, still looking at the bumps and buds of a hundred tiny, plaster roses instead of his horribly sympathetic face.
    A hand goes to my shoulder. “Just take care of yourself. Survive, endure, for three more years…”
    “What about my sister?” I think of Frankie alone in this house with him, and my dress suddenly feels like it’s strangling me. I tug at the collar. “She’s still so young.”
    There’s hope in his expression. His cheeks raise and he talks to me like an equal, like someone who might matter