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A few minutes later, we descend the grand staircase and make our way to the den. Our journey there feels like a funeral procession. We hold hands and walk the plank together.
Inside Shaw’s den decorated with dark woods and gold upholstery, three lawyers appear to be in deep conference with Henry Shaw, who still looks like a snot-nosed kid in grown-up clothing.
His face falls when he sees us, his disappointment at my arrival apparent. But perhaps some of Shaw’s decorum did wash off on Henry because he doesn’t ask me to leave in front of the executors.
“Condolences, Miss Shaw and Mr. Cliffton, I presume,” the balding lawyer in wire-framed glasses says, offering us his hand. “Mr. Shaw was a pillar of the community on the sound, and Wainscott Hollow is an iconic estate that was cared for so beautifully.”
We greet them and sit as close to one another as humanly possible without sharing a chair. Henry sits near the executors as if to say he’s on their side and already knows what the will might say.
I say a silent prayer in my head, an old standard from Catholic school I can conjure up by heart. I’m not exactly religious, but it’s my duty to protect Kat. We’re now all each other has, and I’m desperate for an easy way out of this situation.
Donahue is the name of the bald lawyer in glasses who appears to be in charge, and he reads through technicalities and how he will be guiding the estate through the probate process. The three of us are the only beneficiaries in the will he informs us, and Mr. Shaw updated it twice—after the death of his late wife and after the passing of his housekeeper, Peggy Cliffton.
Kat takes my hand and squeezes until her knuckles are white. Her eyes brighten, and she looks at me at the mention of my mother. Mr. Shaw was planning ahead, and maybe he did love me after all.
“The entirety of Wainscott Hollow, the physical property, beach front, as well as all structures and vehicles on the estate will be put into the name of Mr. Henry Shaw. Financial funds, liquid assets, and investments will be put into the name of Mr. Henry Shaw. A financial trust to the sum of one million dollars will be held in the name of Miss Katelyn Shaw, frozen until she reaches the age of twenty-five. A provision totaling five hundred thousand dollars in liquid assets will be left to Mr. Heath Cliffton, accessible within the week. Legal guardianship of Miss Shaw will fall to her older brother Henry Shaw until she’s of age…”
I watch as a wicked smile overtakes Henry’s face. Kat goes pale, and her pulse surges through our clenched hands. A tiny gasp escapes her, and she parts her lips, but she puts on a brave face, knowing as well as I do that Henry thrives off of his ability to scare us.
Kat is seventeen. That means a full year of living under Henry’s rule until she can leave. Realistically speaking, if Kat cannot access her trust until the age of twenty-five, then she’s trapped here for longer. Thank God Shaw left me enough to care for both Kat and myself. We won’t be rich, we won’t be living in a place like Wainscott Hollow, but we can be comfortable.
Five hundred thousand dollars is more than anyone in my family could have left me. It’s tremendously generous and almost makes me weep with gratitude. With this money, I’ll be able to finish out my senior year at Fairmont, maybe even get into a good school and afford a college education—a gift that wasn’t in the cards on my mother’s salary—not without a full scholarship or a lifetime of student loan debt in front of me.
When we finish the meeting, Henry is smug and gloats like he’s come out on the winning team, which I guess, as far as what he values, he has. Money, power, greed, control—Henry’s got everything he ever wanted. Without the moral intervention and checking put in place by Mr. Shaw, Henry can rule his dominion as the heartless villain he aspires to be.
“Katelyn, now that I’m in charge, I’d like to talk to you about your dress,” Henry tells Kat between bites of pizza and slugs of beer. The way he eats is grotesque.
We’ve ordered pizza and are eating in the kitchen. Without Mr. Shaw around, it feels ridiculous to eat in the formal dining room.
Kat pauses with her slice halfway to her mouth, then returns the piece to the plate without taking a bite.
“Your weight has gotten out of control, and I think by not saying anything, Dad was enabling you. You need a trainer and a diet that addresses the issue. We can try to turn this around before it’s too late.”
