“It’s January Jackson! Just call me January. Like the month.” She pats my arm, then Dayton’s before moving on.
I look up then to realize there’s a line forming. I glance at Dayton, half expecting him to abandon me and go stand near the caskets like he said he was going to when we planned this part, but he doesn’t. He stays right beside me all night.
chapter three
Summer
The executor’s office is in Coconut Beach, thankfully, so we don’t have to fly anywhere for our appointment.
Coconut Beach is an island located off the southern tip of Florida. It’s a hot spot for wealthy visitors to have their second or third homes that they come to three to four times a year. The plane ride down from New York City is just over four hours, plus a twenty-minute puddle jump in a seaplane.
The shiny, impersonal interior probably makes Dayton feel right at home. I’m starting to regret my leather sandals and the two little braids in the front of my hair when I get to the door and see the receptionist in a pencil skirt.
“Right this way, Miss Sullivan. Mr. Walsh is ready for you.” She leads me to an office door, knocking briefly before opening it.
Of course, Dayton was early. He probably helped them open the place up. He’s dressed slightly more casual today, in brown slacks and a tan linen button-down with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His hair is still slicked back, like old-school Superman.
Maybe it’s not too short.
I’m not one hundred percent sure where we stand. After thevisitation, where he never left my side, I wasn’t sure what to expect at the funeral. He did the exact same thing, but even when I was sobbing my eyes out as they lowered the caskets into the ground, he never offered a shoulder or a tissue. And I still haven’t seen him shed one tear.
The executor smiles at me, standing from behind the mahogany desk. He reaches out his hand. I grasp it before taking the seat he gestures toward.
“It’s nice to meet you, although, of course, not under the best circumstances. However, I do believe you and your brother will be pleased to hear what I have to say about your parents’ estate.”
“Stepbrother.”
“Stepsister.”
We speak in unison.
Mr. Walsh looks from my face to his, his brow furrowed as he nods. “Yes, of course.”
He takes his seat and flips through the pages on his desk. “Your parents, Russell and Clara, recently updated their will in the last year. They declared you both as beneficiaries to their entire estate, split fifty-fifty, right down the middle. Their personal belongings are to be given to each of their respective blood children.”
He clears his throat, interlacing his fingers and leaning his elbows on the desk as he meets my eyes, then Dayton’s.
“The next part is a little tricky and unusual. You have to agree on what to do with the house itself, which is by far the most valuable. Your parents sold the home they had owned for many years—recently, in fact—and they purchased a beach bungalow, right on the water down at Sunrise Beach.Bungalowis a modest term. It’s a pretty large house with excellent land value on the coveted Sunrise Beach. You have one year todecide on liquidating all assets, or keeping it and using it as a rental property and splitting the profits.
“Or if you choose, using it as you each see fit as long as you agree. For example, one of you could live in it and pay some amount of rent to the other one. You could agree to each having access to it for six months out of the year, et cetera. They seemed to think there was a chance you might not come to an agreement, so after one year, if no agreement has been made, you will be obligated to sell it and split the profits from the sale fifty-fifty.”
“We’ll sell it,” Dayton says.
I turn, gaping at the way he just announced what would happen without even asking me if I had an opinion.
“Excuse me? Just like that, you want to sell their home without even looking at it or discussing it?”
He’s manspreading in his chair, his thighs open as he leans back in a relaxed stance, like we’re discussing our favorite ice cream flavors and not every single possession our parents owned before their tragic deaths.
He tilts his head to look at me. “Yes, I want to sell. No, there’s nothing to discuss.” He turns back to Mr. Walsh.
What the actual fuck? He has no feelings about anything. Does he even have a soul?
I stop glaring at Dayton and turn to face Mr. Walsh. My stomach clenches.
“It’s in pretty severe disrepair, but they already renovated the studio at the back of the property and were planning to live in it while construction went on at the main house. It could bring in a substantial amount of income as a rental property. Billionaires from New York vacation here all the time, and they’d pay a pretty penny to rent that place out, possibly even for long-term stays. The land value will only accumulate as the years go on.”
I flip back to look at Dayton. “Did you know about this?”
