“You want to hear what went on the last time we spoke? Fine. This is the truth and I got witnesses. I’d come over here to pick up the kids. I was living somewhere else temporarily. My wife was standing right there, so you can ask her if you want. He arrives on my doorstep so drunk he can hardly stand. He’s selling me some hard-luck story about half a million bucks and how he never did nothing wrong . . . he’s been falsely imprisoned . . . big boo-hoo. Like I could give a shit. He’s begging my forgiveness, wanting to give me this lovey-dovey hug and stuff. He actually thinks he’s coming into my house so he can get to know my wife and kids. He smells like a sewer, like he puked on himself. There’s no way I’d let him in. With my kids home? I told him to get the hell out and not to call until he was clean and sober for a month, which he must not have managed since I never heard from him again.”

“Did he see your sisters that same visit?”

“Of course. You probably know that already since you bought his version, hook, line, and sinker. He said he wanted to talk to them, and like an idiot I told him where Anna worked. He showed up drunk there as well and made a horse’s ass of himself. Anna was so pissed at me she didn’t talk to me for a month. Now we get cut from the will, like we did something to him instead of the other way around.”

“Ethan, honestly, I’m not blaming you for anything.”

“Why would you? You’re not the butt of the joke. Tell you what. As far as I’m concerned? The guy was dead when he went to Soledad. I wrote him off the day he left and so did Ellen and Anna. Screw him. I don’t want his money. He can shove it up his dead ass.”

I thought it wise to keep any further comments to myself. Anything I said was the equivalent of tossing gasoline on a bonfire.

Ethan stared at me. “So is that it? Are we done now?”

Hesitantly, I said, “There are some personal items he wanted you to have. They’re still in his safe deposit box, which I won’t have access to until the hearing in December. I can send them to you when the time comes.”

“Personal items?”

“He wrote and illustrated a folio for each of you. California edible plants and wildflowers.” My face was feeling warm again because it all sounded so lame.

“Like a little coloring book? I can hardly wait. Meanwhile, where’d the money go? I forgot to ask. He give it away? Donate it to a worthy cause so he could look good at our expense?”

“He left it to me.”

“Say what?”

“He left me the money.”