Will felt himself clenching his jaw again, his back teeth grinding together, a knee-jerk instinct to shut down this conversation. This was the problem, really. Since he’d gotten the call he’d known he should be thinking about this, the situation with Donny’s estate—paperwork, probate, everything—but instead he’d stayed busy, stayed moving. He stayed late here, or he took an extra shift at the clinic where he worked as a doc-in-the-box on his off days, crowding out the noise that kicked up in his head every time he thought about Donny and his damned apartment. Last night, lying wide awake in his bed, counting the hours until his alarm went off, he’d decided he’d had enough of the ruminating, ridiculous avoidance. He’d taken the shortest of showers, thrown on his scrubs, and made his way to the address he’d been staring at on legal paperwork for more than a week.

He’d been determined to do the practical thing. The responsible thing.

But then there had been that bolting desperation to get out onto the balcony, away from Donny’s things. And ever since, this unruly instinct to keep his mind fixated on a woman whose name he didn’t even know, instead of on the problem at hand. And now, this pressured impulse to shut down a completely innocuous conversation about it?

He was being a fucking child.

“North,” he answered, determinedly. “Up around Logan Square.”

“That would add considerable commuting time each day, but—”

“I can’t live there,” Will said, more sharply than he intended. He thought of the mustard wallpaper, the unnerving, possibly haunted wall sconces, the messy detritus of Donny’s life. “I need to get rid of it.”

“My sister is a Realtor,” Abraham said, clearly unfazed by Will’s tone. Probably because ninety-three percent of his own sentences were delivered sharply. Once Will had seen Dr. Abraham tell a crying, concussed twelve-year-old that football was a “fool’s sport.”

“The terms of the will say I need to keep it for a year.”

Abraham cocked his head, his brow furrowing. “Odd, that. Is it legal? You know, my brother is a lawyer.”

How many conveniently employed siblings did this man have? Will figured he’d better not bring up his recent insomnia, or else he’d be learning about a sleep therapist sister next. He also better not mention the fact that he’d briefly entertained the idea that the woman he’d had a conversation with at four thirty this morning had also been the girl who’d thrown tomatoes at his head one summer day sixteen years ago.

That’d mean a regular therapist sister, probably.

“I spoke to a lawyer. He said I could contest it while it’s in probate, but that might end up delaying things even more.”