Jerry Perry sits at a massive mahogany desk in an office that smells strongly of pipe tobacco and leather. Still dressed from the funeral, he’s the picture of old southern charm with his fading blond mustache, dark gray checkered blazer, and bright red bowtie. He stands when his secretary leads me into his office, his round, jovial features spreading into a broad grin.

“Felicity!” His hand clasps mine in a warm, reassuring grip. “I’m so sorry, honey. Your Gran…” He shakes his head. “They don’t make ‘em quite like Bethany, anymore. She was a class act. The world is a lesser place without her in it.”

“Thank you, Jerry.” My eyes are pricking. This man has been around my family for as long as I can remember. Gran trusted him above all others to manage her financial affairs — even after she got sick.

“Sit, sit.” He gestures at the plush armchair across from him as he settles back behind his desk. “I appreciate you stopping by. I know you said on the phone you’re only in town for a few hours.”

“My flight leaves at eight.”

“I’ll cut right to the chase, then.” His pale blue eyes gleam in the low light. “I’m sure you’re wondering why I asked you here.”

“If it’s about the funeral costs—” My cheeks blaze with sudden heat. “I don’t have a lot in savings, but I’ll help in any way I can. Maybe pay in installments, or—”

He shakes his head. “No, no, nothing like that! That’s all handled. Your grandmother and I set aside assets to cover those expenses years ago.”

“Oh,” I breathe, relief coursing through me. These days, I barely earn enough to scrape together grocery money. The nest egg I had when I left LA — the initial advance I received from Route 66 — is all but gone, used to purchase my cottage in cash when I first arrived on the Cape. The part-time job I landed sorting books at the local library three times a week helps me get by, but it’s not exactly going to land me on Forbes’ 30 Under 30 list anytime soon.

But something else might, a nagging voice chimes in from the back of my mind. All those Wildwood royalties are just sitting there waiting for you in an account at Route 66… if you’d only call them… let them know where to send a check…

I shake my head to clear the thought. That money comes with undeniable strings attached. And, based on the inflammatory legal envelope currently burning a hole through my purse, I’m guessing the label isn’t just going to hand over the money and let me walk away scot-free.

Jerry clears his throat and shuffles a few papers on his desk. “Anyway… as you’re no doubt aware, your grandmother lost the majority of her mansion’s physical assets during the fire ten years ago.”

I nod.

“Thankfully, her bank accounts never suffered such a blow.” He chuckles, shaking his head in disbelief. “Bethany hardly spent a penny of her royalty money, except to cover her medical care. That’s why, as I’m sure you know, there’s been some infighting within your family ranks these past few years over who’ll get to control her estate in the event of her death.”

A grimace contorts my face. Infighting. That’s certainly a polite way to describe the all-out blood war that’s been waged since Gran’s diagnosis — my parents on the front lines, my aunt and her husband in the opposite trenches. And me, shielding my head from the worst of the mortar fire, smack dab in the center of a battle I never wanted any part in.

Jerry sighs. “Unfortunately, scenarios like this are not all that unusual when there’s a celebrity relative involved. People become…”

Greedy, money-hungry vultures.

“…overly invested,” he says tactfully.

I stare at him. “Mr. Perry, I’m sorry, I just don’t see what this has to do with me. Aunt Kim was granted controlling interest over Gran’s estate several years ago… If there’s a problem, I think it would be best to speak with her about—”

“Felicity, dear girl. There’s no problem.” He laughs. “You’re correct that the courts awarded your aunt authority over your grandmother’s medical decisions and care. But the remainder of her estate — her significant assets — were set aside in trust.”

My brows lift.

“Despite the illness that stole her memory, your grandmother was not entirely unaware of the, shall we say, frosty climate between her two daughters. Which is why she asked me to keep the contents of her will sealed until she passed on.” His thick southern twang mellows to a murmur. “If I may, I’d like to share those contents with you now.”

My pulse kicks into gear at the thought of hearing words Gran wrote — even if it’s just legal jargon. Not trusting myself to speak, I give a small nod.

Jerry slides a pair of thick-framed reading glasses onto his nose and lifts a piece of paper from his desk. His voice is warm as he begins to read.

I, Bethany Hayes, a resident of the state of Tennessee, being of sound mind and memory, do hereby make, publish, and declare this to be my last will and testament.

To my granddaughter Devyn Hayes, I leave a sum of fifty-thousand dollars to be used as funds for higher education, which she so sorely needs, because blogging is not a career no matter what she tries to tell me.

To my daughters, Kim Hayes and Kandace Wilde, I leave the most fervent wish that one day, you will be able to forgive me for my failures — and love each other, in spite of your own.

To my son-in-law, Terence Wilde, I leave nothing at all, for he has already taken far too much from my family.

Finally, to my granddaughter, Felicity Wilde, I leave the full remaining value of my estate including any future royalties as well as the sum of my bank accounts, in addition to the forty acres of land upon which my house once stood and all remaining personal effects still gathering dust in storage — contingent on the agreement that she throws out that old guitar she’s always dragging around and gets herself a proper instrument to play. My blue Gibson should do fine, I think.

Keep singing, Felicity. You’re a light in the dark.

Hereby singed and dated, with all my love,

Bethany Hayes

Jerry sets down the paper and peers at me over the rim of his glasses, a bemused grin making his mustache twitch. I sit stock-still, hardly processing the words he’s just read.

“Your Gran always did have a flair for the dramatic.” He shrugs lightly. “Any questions for me?”

A choked sound slides out of my mouth. The breath is frozen in my lungs.

“Mary!” Jerry yells to his secretary. “Can you please bring Miss Wilde a glass of water? She looks like she’s about to keel over.”

He’s not wrong.

A few moments later, after I’ve taken a sip of water and gathered my bearings, I’m finally able to formulate a proper sentence.

“She left me everything?”

He nods. “Except the college fund for Devyn, which hardly touches the balance in her accounts. And speaking of that balance…” His eyes light up as he looks down at a bank statement. When he reads the eight digits proceeding the decimal point, the glass slips through my fingers and bounces against his carpet, spilling water across my too-tight pumps.

Holy fudge.

Jerry spends the next half hour laying out the specifics of my inheritance — a never-ending stream of bank accounts and routing numbers and inventory lists and land acreages. I try to pay attention, but my mind feels sluggish as it processes this surprising turn of events.

I’m rich.

Beyond rich — I’m extravagantly, obnoxiously wealthy.

And all those vultures circling over Gran’s head for the past ten years, praying for her to take her last breath so they could finally swoop down and claim their piece of the carrion…

They get nothing.

Nothing.

Despite all their screaming matches and court battles, their manipulations and barbed words… my parents, my aunt, all those other relatives who oozed out of the woodwork like toxic mold when they saw an opportunity to take advantage of an ailing old woman…

Cut out.

Crossed off.

I wonder if they were ever in the will to begin with.

“Oh, they were,” Jerry says, startling me. I hadn’t realized I’d spoken aloud. “Your grandmother had them removed right around the time she was placed into the nursing home. She knew her health was failing and, though her daughters attempted to hide the worst of their fighting from her, Bethany was perfectly aware of the hell they were putting each other through.” He pauses. “And the hell they put you through, as a result.”

My eyes are suddenly stinging.

“For what it’s worth, Felicity, your grandmother was one of my dearest clients. A friend. And I know how much it pained her to leave you unprotected in that house. I think, maybe… this is her way of making it up to you, the only way she could.”

My teeth dig into my bottom lip and I focus on the pain, struggling to keep my emotions in check. Later, I’ll fall apart. In private. When there’s no one around to witness the acute agony raging inside me.

Jerry clears his throat. “I hope you know, I’m always here — whether it’s for legal matters or anything else you might need.”

His kindness is almost enough to shatter me. I turn my gaze away from his face, clinging desperately to my last shred of composure. My glossy eyes lock on my purse — and the white legal envelope protruding out the top.

“Actually…” My fingers shake as they close around the Route 66 papers. “There is one thing I might need help with…”

Jerry spends a long time looking over the thick dossier. As he scans through the pages, the concerned indentation between his brows grows more and more pronounced. I shift restlessly in my seat as I wait for the verdict, tenser with each passing moment.

When he finally reaches the last page, he lets out a sigh and sits back in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose as though he feels a migraine coming on.

“Well?” I ask softly, unable to contain myself another moment. “How bad is it?”

“Would you like the sugar-coated version or the cold hard facts?”

“No sugar necessary.”

“Just like your Gran.” His smile has a sad edge. “Route 66 is suing you for breach of contract.”

“How can they do that? I delivered the album, as promised.”

“The album, yes. However, according to this document, you promised them quite a bit more than that.” When I don’t answer, his voice goes soft. “Specifically, a six-month Wildwood world tour.”

“But that’s— I didn’t think— No.” I swallow. “No, that can’t be. They can’t possibly expect me to go on tour! Not after everything…”

“Look, Felicity… I don’t know what happened that made you leave this life behind. I don’t know why you’ve been hiding out these past two years or what you’ve been running from. All I know is what this contract says, and what the financial weight behind it implies.”

“Which is what, exactly?”

“It boils down to this: they have your signature, agreeing to a world tour with the band after completion of the record. You haven’t delivered on that part of the bargain, so they’re coming after you — with considerable force, it would seem.” He studies me carefully. “Labels like Route 66 have a lot of money and they don’t like to lose a penny of it, if they can help it. Which makes you walking out, destroying their plans for a highly lucrative string of shows all across the globe, a real thorn in their sides.”

“I don’t understand — how can they hold me accountable for a tour that never even happened? I didn’t lose them any money! They didn’t have to refund venues or fire roadies…”

“It doesn’t matter. All they see is the potential money you could’ve made — money they expected in their pockets that, instead, went up in thin air when you walked away. Between the ticket sales, merchandise, and revenue from additional album exposure… they’re out tens of millions of dollars. And, in their eyes, you’re the one to blame.”

The blood drains from my face. “What are my options?”

“You can either fight them in court, hope and pray a sympathetic judge sees things your way after hearing both sides of the story… or you can go back.”

“Back?” My voice cracks.

“To Los Angeles.”

“You mean… agree to do the tour.”

He nods. “Or, at the very least, go talk to your people at the label. See if you can work something out before this goes sideways. I’m happy to represent you, to advocate for you in court, if it comes to that. But if I were in your position, I’d explore every other option first. In my experience, most lawsuits and legal disputes are entirely preventable with bit of compromise from both parties. You’d be amazed how much ground you can reclaim with some open communication.”

I’m silent. Still. Remarkably calm on the outside, considering my world is coming apart at the seams.

Again.

“The tour is only six months,” Jerry says gently. “Perhaps you could even negotiate them down to a shorter stint. Then, once you’ve fulfilled your contractual obligations, you can walk away — for good, this time. They’ll have no further grounds to come after you.”

This can’t be happening.

My head is aching, my pulse is throbbing. It’s too much to process all at once. I try to channel some of the icy calm I’ve kept so effectively around my heart these past two years, but it’s splintering with each pounding beat against my ribcage, an animal breaking free of frosted chains after a long, numbing hibernation.

“No,” I breathe, barely audible. “I won’t go back there. I can’t go back.”

Not to the label. Not to that life. Not to him.

“If you decide to fight this, I’ll do my best to represent you. But, as your attorney, having seen the way these cases generally play out… I’d be remiss not to advise against it.” He shifts in his plush armchair. “I can see how much the idea of returning to Los Angeles affects you, Felicity. But they have you bound in an iron-clad contract. Fighting them will not only be messy and public… it will be hugely expensive. They could easily take everything you have in restitution.”

My mouth opens, prepared to tell him there’s nothing I have worth taking… but the words dissolve on my tongue. An hour ago, that was true. I had nothing except a single-bedroom shack on a seaside cliff, so outdated even the cheapest of tourists wouldn’t touch it. But now, with the inheritance…

I wouldn’t be losing the meager coffers in my own checking account. I’d be losing the estate Gran left me. Not just her fortune, but her land. Her guitar collection. And, above all, her hopes and dreams that I’d take that money and use it for something better than court cases and legal battles. If she’d wanted her life’s work to go into lawyers’ pockets, she would’ve let her daughters fight to the death over every last penny.

My stomach turns to lead as I realize I have no choice. I’ve been backed into a corner, outmaneuvered and outgunned by players far more deft at moving pieces on this chessboard. Jerry must recognize the defeat on my face, because he leans forward and takes my hand with a gentle squeeze.

“You’re Bethany Hayes’ granddaughter. You can handle this. You can handle anything.”

I don’t say a word. I just cling to his fingers like they’re the only thing left tethering me to the earth.

“Just a few months,” he murmurs. “Then you’ll have your freedom. Forever.”

“A few months,” I echo hollowly.

As if that’s any consolation at all.

Last time I stepped foot in that city, a few months was plenty long enough for Los Angeles to destroy everything I held dear. Last time, all it took was a few months for my world to spin out of control, for me to lose my grip on the life I’d built, brick by brick, on a foundation of young love and starry-eyed naivety.

I want to cry.

I want to scream.

I want to rage against the fates laughing down at me as they drag me back to the broken fragments of that shattered dream, its shards already drawing blood from the flesh of the wounded organ beating too fast inside my chest.

I do none of those things.

I am Bethany Hayes granddaughter.

I will not dishonor her legacy.

Scarlet lipstick still perfectly intact, I set my shoulders and look straight into Jerry’s eyes. “Can I borrow your phone? I need to call the airline and change my flight.”