Chapter Text
Warnings: Funeral, grief, bereavement, death of grandparents, emotional distress, mystery, suspense.✨
"Some inherit money. Odette inherited secrets."
Odette's POV.
Funerals were peculiar.
Not because of the flowers, the black attire, or the condolences from people who hadn't spoken to my grandparents in years. No, funerals were strange because the world continued to move on while yours had just come to an end. People laughed, cars drove past, birds sang, and the sun still shone. As if my grandparents hadn't just been laid to rest. As if I hadn't lost the only family, I'd ever truly known. The cemetery had emptied almost twenty minutes ago. Most people had already gone home. I stood alone beside their graves, staring at the freshly turned earth.
Grandma and Grandpa Hart.
Together again.
The thought should have brought comfort, but it only made my chest ache.
"Miss Hart?"
I blinked in surprise.
A man in a charcoal suit stood a few feet away, holding an umbrella despite the clear skies. I vaguely recognized him from the service.
It was Mr. Whitmore, the lawyer.
I quickly wiped away my tears before turning toward him.
"Yes?"
His expression softened.
"I'm sorry for your loss."
I managed a small smile.
"Thank you."
For a moment, neither of us spoke. Then he cleared his throat.
"Your grandparents requested that you come to my office immediately after the funeral."
I frowned.
"Today?"
"Immediately."
That was odd.
Most estate meetings happened days or even weeks later.
"What for?"
His mouth twitched.
Almost like he wanted to say something, but thought better of it.
"The reading of the will."
I glanced back toward the graves.
Today felt too soon. Too raw.
But knowing my grandparents, there was probably a reason. There always was.
"Okay."
"Good."
Relief flashed across his face.
Which was strange.
Why would he be relieved?
"We should leave soon," he said.
"Your grandmother was very clear about that."
A chill ran down my spine unexpectedly. The afternoon sun, which had been warm, suddenly felt colder. I glanced back toward the graves one last time.
Something twisted painfully in my chest.
Goodbye.
Then, I followed the lawyer to his car.
⸻
An hour later, I sat alone in a leather chair inside a law office overlooking the town. The room had a faint scent of old books and coffee. Mr. Whitmore sat behind an enormous desk.
Several folders rested in front of him, but one of them looked particularly thick.
I shifted nervously.
"Was there a reason Grandma wanted this done today?"
The lawyer adjusted his glasses.
"Your grandparents left very specific instructions."
That wasn't an answer.
I waited.
He didn't elaborate. Typical.
I sighed and settled back in my chair.
"Alright."
He opened the folder, and the room suddenly felt too quiet.
"Odette Hart," he began.
"Your grandparents have left you the entirety of their estate."
My eyebrows shot upward.
"The entirety?"
"Yes."
I had expected the cabin or maybe some savings, but not everything.
My grandparents had lived comfortably for years, but they had never talked about money. Ever.
Mr. Whitmore continued.
"The estate includes the cabin property located at Blackwater Lake."
I smiled softly.
That part didn't surprise me. The cabin had always been my favorite place in the world—every summer, every holiday, every childhood memory.
Blackwater Lake.
"Additionally," he said.
"You have inherited all surrounding land owned by the estate."
The smile slipped.
"How much land?"
The lawyer looked down, then backed up.
"A little over three hundred acres," he said.
My jaw dropped in disbelief.
"What?" I stammered, unable to respond.
He continued speaking before I could even process his words.
"Several investment accounts," he said.
"Okay," I managed to say, trying to comprehend what he was saying.
"A trust fund," he added, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
I blinked in disbelief, trying to process the information.
"A what?" I repeated, still struggling to understand.
"A trust fund," he repeated, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
I stared at him.
Surely I had misheard. My grandparents owned a trust fund? Mr. Whitmore slid a paper across the desk.
I looked down, then immediately looked back up.
"There's absolutely no way that's correct."
"It's correct."
I glanced at the number again.
It hadn't changed.
Millions.
Millions.
I felt lightheaded.
"What on earth were my grandparents doing?"
The lawyer actually laughed—a short, surprised sound.
"I had the same question years ago."
I leaned back in my chair, completely stunned.
Then, things took a strange turn. Mr. Whitmore's smile vanished. He reached for a smaller envelope resting beneath the paperwork.
The envelope appeared old.
Its edges were slightly yellowed.
My grandmother's handwriting was neatly written across the front.
My heart clenched painfully.
"Before anything is finalized," the lawyer said quietly, "there are conditions."
Of course, there were.
I should have known. Nothing involving my grandmother was ever straightforward.
I crossed my arms.
"Conditions?"
His expression became unreadable. Then, he unfolded a single piece of paper. I watched him closely for the first time all afternoon...
He looked nervous.
And suddenly, I wasn't sure I wanted to hear what came next.