The Missing Attachment
Aldric's handwriting filled three pages, uneven in places where his hand must have shaken, steady in the places that mattered most.
If you're reading this, then my brother has done exactly what I always suspected he would, and I am sorry I didn't fix it while I could still look you all in the eye and explain why it needed fixing at all.
He wrote about the loan. About the bank. About asking Odessa to delay the filing to save the land, the collateral, the company — and never finding, in twenty years, the nerve to say it plainly to his own children instead of just quietly correcting a record and hoping the story never had to be told out loud.
I am instructing Percival to treat Odessa's material contribution to saving this company in that year as equivalent, for the purposes of this trust, to any question of marital status. She did not merely marry into what I built. She is the reason there was anything left for me to leave any of you. The attached signed statement makes that legally binding regardless of how Schedule C is otherwise interpreted.
"Attached," Roman said. "What attached?"
They checked the envelope again. Nothing. No second document, no signature page, nothing but the letter itself.
"He wrote it like the page was still here when he sealed this," Thalia said. "Which means someone opened this after he did and took it back out."
"Who's had access to this desk since he died," Odessa asked, though she already felt the shape of the answer settling into place before anyone spoke it.
"Staff," Roman said slowly. "Us. And—"
"Garrick," Thalia finished. "He came by three times in Dad's last month. Said he wanted to make peace before it was too late. Nobody thought to ask why he kept wanting to sit in the study alone."
Odessa looked at the envelope, at the gap where a signature should have lived, and felt something that wasn't grief anymore.
"We need Percival," she said. "Tonight."