Chapter 6
Office sat above pharmacy on Main. Frosted glass door said HARLOW LAW, PLLC in gold letters. Buzzard hum from heater. Receptionist behind laminate counter didn't look up when bell dinged.
I stood there, tan backpack against legs, envelope creased in hoodie pocket. Will copy folded inside. Brass key cold against palm through fabric.
"Appointment?" she asked.
"No appointment," I said. "Need ten minutes with Mr. Harlow. Probate filing. Dennis house."
She eyed backpack, then phone. Pressed intercom. "Gentleman about Dennis estate."
Pause. Static. "Send him back," voice said.
Hall smelled like old paper and coffee. Harlow desk big, oak, covered in stacks. He mid-60s, thin tie, sleeves rolled. Didn't stand. Waved at chair.
"Finnley Dennis?" he said. "Raynan mentioned you might come by."
Stomach dropped. Raynan already seeded story.
I sat. Pulled will copy out. Unfolded on desk. "My father left this. Dated last November. Your filing says he died year ago. Says house goes to Raynan."
Harlow glanced, didn't touch. "I filed what client provided. Hospital paperwork, death certificate copy. County accepted."
"What hospital?" I asked.
He leaned back. Chair creaked. "St. Clare. Raynan brought discharge summary and certificate. Looked legitimate. My job not to investigate grief."
"Did you see body? Did county verify?"
"Not my role," he said. "Attorney relies on client documents. If documents forged, liability falls on client, not counsel."
I pushed copy closer. "This will names storage unit 108. Says Raynan started lying. Signature notarized. You ever ask Raynan about unit?"
Harlow eyes narrowed. Slid paper back across desk with fingertip, like contaminated. "I can't discuss client matters with adverse party. You not represented. I advise you get attorney."
"I am trying to talk to one," I said.
He stood. Signal done. "I understand you been away. Reentry hard. Don't make it harder chasing conspiracies. County clerk has filings. If you dispute, file challenge. Bring authenticated originals."
My hands shook. I folded will, crease sharp. "So you did nothing wrong?"
"I followed procedure," he said. "Raynan provided paperwork. I filed. Perfectly routine."
Door opened behind me. Receptionist hovered. Harlow already reaching for phone, dismissing.
"Fifteen minutes up," he said. "Good luck, son."
Lobby air colder. I zipped hoodie, hoisted backpack. Didn't leave building right away. Stood by stairwell, water cooler gurgling. Heard Harlow voice through thin wall, low but clear.
"Raynan? He was just here. Yes, same kid, gray hoodie, backpack. Had copy of will, some story about storage unit. I told him nothing, sent him to clerk. No, he didn't have originals. You should—" pause. "—yeah, I understand."
Phone clicked.
I stared at peeling paint on stairwell door. Breath shallow. Legal route blocked without leverage, just like clerk said. Harlow wouldn't move without originals or father himself. And now Raynan knew I had father's papers. Knew about unit 108.
May you like
I pushed through exit into overcast parking lot. Wind cut through hoodie. Pulled phone, no messages. Envelope still in pocket, heavier now. Need independent proof. Harlow call meant clock started. Raynan hunting, not waiting.
I headed toward bus stop, backpack strap tight in fist, key knocking against envelope with each step.
