Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 70524 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70524 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
God, his voice is boring. I have to slap myself to keep myself alert as he drones on.
“Section one. Charitable bequest. I direct that seventy-five percent of my liquidated assets be distributed to the Chicago Coalition to End Homelessness, to be used at their discretion in furtherance of their mission to combat homelessness in the city of Chicago.” He nods toward the woman in the black gown. “Mrs. Griffin, once the will is probated, your foundation will receive a little over thirty million dollars.”
The woman stands. “Thank you. The Chicago Coalition to End Homelessness will put the money to excellent use.” She nods to me. “Thank you to all the Hathaways for this generous gesture.”
Generous gesture, my ass. Half of the people who are on the streets of Chicago today are there because my father screwed the city’s economy so bad. This is just a last-ditch attempt to remove some of the tarnish from his legacy. But regardless of his motives, it’s still a good cause.
Only seventy-five percent of his assets are going to the charity, though. I can’t help but wonder where the other twenty-five is going. Not to my mom, or she’d be in the room. To Chuck, maybe? What the hell did he do to deserve it?
I can’t imagine any of it is going to me.
Then again, I’m in the room for something.
Mrs. Griffin takes her seat, and Mr. Dorman continues reading the will.
“Section two. Bequeaths to my son, Maddox Hathaway. I bequeath to my son, Maddox Hathaway, my 1967 Rolls-Royce Phantom V, to be his property outright and without restriction.”
I raise my eyebrows. “He left me his car?”
Mr. Dorman nods. “And it’s in excellent shape, Mr. Hathaway. It’s parked in a garage not far from here. I’ll hand you the keys once we’re finished. No need to wait for probate as you’ll get it anyway, and someone needs to take care of it.”
Damn. I wasn’t expecting that.
Mr. Dorman continues. “I further bequeath to Maddox my membership in the exclusive club known as Aces Underground, with the condition that my estate shall pay the required membership fees in perpetuity, ensuring his continued membership.”
What? I’ve never even heard of Aces Underground.
“What the hell is that?” I ask.
“As his will states, it’s an exclusive club downtown. Your father was a member for years, and members are allowed to bequeath their affiliation upon their deaths to their next of kin. I have confirmed with the gentleman who keeps the records that your name is already on their list. I will hand off a packet with directions and other pertinent information your father left behind with your car keys.”
I blink. “Okay.”
I get his Rolls-Royce—which I’m happy to take—and a club membership. Very weird.
Mr. Dorman returns to the will. “Section three. Trust for Maddox Hathaway.”
I perk my ears up.
“I direct that the remaining twenty-five percent of my assets be placed in trust for the benefit of my son, Maddox Hathaway.”
The old bastard actually left me money? But it’s in a trust, which means there are conditions. I’m already over eighteen, so that can’t be it.
“The trustee of said trust shall be my former Vice Mayor, Chuck Dodge, who shall administer the trust in accordance with the following conditions. A, the trust funds shall be released to Maddox Hathaway solely upon his enrollment and subsequent completion of a Bachelor’s degree in Political Science from Yale University. B, the full amount of the trust shall be disbursed to Maddox upon conferral of his degree.”
Of fucking course. The other shoe drops.
He wants me to go to Yale. Restore his fucking legacy. I do the math in my head—the Homeless Coalition lady got thirty million, which was seventy-five percent. That means the trust has a little over ten million for me.
Fuck. That kind of money could change my life.
“I appoint Chuck Dodge as the executor of this will and direct that he carry out its provisions faithfully and diligently. In witness whereof, I have hereunto set my hand and seal this twenty-second day of June, in the year…”
I have to stifle a sarcastic laugh. My birthday is the twenty-first of June. My old man rewrote his will the day after I turned eighteen.
And he didn’t mention Mom. Was he already planning on screwing her over even before his career tanked?
I meet Mr. Dorman at the door. He hands me two envelopes, one with the keys to the Rolls-Royce in them, and another with directions to an obscure alleyway off Randolph and State downtown where I guess this secret club is located.
And then, written under the note in a scribble I recognize as my dad’s handwriting, is the phrase “follow the writing raven through the river of tears.”
“Follow the what through the who?” I look up at Mr. Dorman. “What the hell does this mean?”
Mr. Dorman shrugs. “I don’t ask questions of my clients, Mr. Hathaway. All I can tell you is that your father sealed that envelope himself before securing it in his safe deposit box along with his will.”