“I’m not okay. This feels like the eye of the storm. I don’t think I’m going to have another breakdown, but it’s going to come in waves. Just…so you’re aware. I’ll have more bad days.”

“I know.”

“You can take a break from me, you know.”

“I don’t want one.”

“Crazyhead.” She ruffles my hair like I’m a child.

“Try to rest.”

“’Kay.”

“Nadia?”

“Yeah.”

“Do I have to worry about you? For real.”

“Not like that.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

“Good enough. Now rest.”

But rest doesn’t come, though. Now that I’ve begun the process of grieving, I’m inundated with memories of Adrian.

30 days

“I, Adrian Bell, being of sound mind and, obviously, failing body—”

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, interrupting. “But can you just give me a copy to read on my own time, and give me the details as succinctly as possible?”

We’re in the law offices of Levine, Levine, and Anton, in a glittery high-rise in the heart of Atlanta. It was the first time I had left the house after the funeral, but I barely remember the trip in—Tess drove. The lawyer Adrian chose to execute his estate, whose name is Tomas Anton, resembles the evil food critic from Ratatouille: extraordinarily tall, but stooped, hunched at the shoulders, with a dour face, silvering dark hair cropped short and balding. He wears an expensive dark charcoal suit with light pinstripes, a somber maroon tie, and slick, polished Italian leather loafers. His voice is sonorous, stentorian.

“That is not how these things are ordinarily done,” he protests.

“I can’t—I just can’t handle this.” I close my eyes. Hearing Adrian’s words, read by someone else, is just too hard.

“Very well.” He clears his throat, and then spends a moment thinking. “The details are thus: his automobile, a 2017 BMW M4 convertible, has been sold for a cash value of forty-five thousand dollars, which funds are currently available in the joint checking account. There were many investments made over the years, upon the advice and urging of his financial advisor, one Lewis McCleary, and those have been largely cashed out, all appropriate taxes paid upon cash-out. The sum total of these comes to…let’s see…one million, seven hundred thousand, and forty-five dollars. And sixty-six cents, by way of precision.”

I gulp. “Wait, what? We had a million dollars in investments?”

“It seems so.”

I blink. “He told me he’d made some investments, but he made it sound like it was just…little stuff. Small amounts.”

“You would have to speak to Mr. McCleary for details. The only information I’m privy to is what is contained here.” He gestures with the will from which he is reading. “Shall I continue?”

“Yes. Thank you.”