Cursed Legacy: The Windhaven Witches Series, Carissa Andrews [korean ebook reader .TXT] 📗

would leave me something like this. Is it a key to fighting the Moirai? Or is it just an old family heirloom?

Discreetly, I look over my shoulder, trying to see if Abigail is still there. Sensing my question, she walks closer and bends down right beside me.

“I have never seen such a thing before,” she whispers, eyeing it with the same bewilderment.

I shake my head. “I’m not sure what it is, either,” I say, flipping it over.

“These look like they could be words,” Wade says, pointing to some of the carvings along the corners.

“Well, I do hope you’ll share with us the mystery of the box,” Mr. Peterson says with a wistful longing in his eyes. It’s clear the mystery of the box is the most excitement this guy has seen in years.

Tipping my head, I say, “I will do that.”

“Now, other than the box,” Mr. Peterson says, holding onto his lapel like he’s about to give a great speech, “you have also been willed quite a nice lump sum.”

Wade and I exchange a significant glance as Mr. Peterson takes a sip of his tea.

“How much?” I ask.

“Fifty-million dollars.”

Wade spits out his tea. Then he wipes frantically at his knees.

“I’m sorry, did you just say fifty million?” he asks, blinking wildly.

My jaw hangs open and I don’t quite have the words.

“Now, of course, the rest belongs to another beneficiary,” Mr. Peterson says, almost as if he’s somber about relaying that information.

“Wait—what about the house?” I say, suddenly alarmed.

“Well, I’m afraid the house doesn’t belong to you,” Mr. Peterson says.

“What?” I sputter. “You have to be kidding. Who else would my father will it to?”

Mr. Peterson sits up a bit straighter, tugging at his collar. “Well, to his wife, of course.”

Chapter 5

Puzzling

All thoughts in my brain tangle with one another as I grapple to make sense of what the executors said. The word wife being associated with my dad has completely short-circuited my inner dialogue.

Wade turns to me, clearly as baffled as I am. Shrugging, I return my gaze to Mr. Peterson.

“I’m sorry, you must be confused,” I say, shaking my head. “My dad wasn’t married. Are you sure you have the most up-to-date will?”

Mr. Peterson’s light eyebrows tug in slightly, but his gaze flits to the paperwork. “No, I’m quite certain. As I said before, the will was notarized only a couple of weeks prior to Mr. Blackwood’s presumed death.”

“But that makes no sense,” I say, wracking my brain for an answer. He’d never mentioned another woman being in the picture and I would have thought she’d be prowling the house if she had some sort of claim on it.

“I really don’t wish to get into the middle of a family squabble. But this is why we requested Mrs. Blackwood be in attendance. There are some important estate documents that require her signature,” Mr. Peterson says, shuffling the paperwork in his lap. Then he reaches down, pulling up a briefcase stored by his feet. With a sideways glance at us, he files the extra papers inside and clicks the lock shut. “But I suppose you’re quite right about reaching out to her. Our office will make arrangements to have this matter squared away.”

I nod absently, realizing the craziness of his claim.

My mom and dad can’t still be married… can they?

Does she even know? Or is this why she didn’t want to be here? Because she knew I’d have questions that she didn’t want to answer?

“Well, despite the unfortunate circumstances, I hope it lightens your heart to know your father loved you very much, Ms. Blackwood,” Mr. Peterson says, standing up. “That’s a very sizable inheritance. If you need any recommendations on financial planners, I would be happy to offer a few suggestions. Of course, nothing needs to be decided now.”

“Thank you,” I say, standing up as well. I set the small box down on the coffee table and extend my hand to him. “I appreciate you coming out here. It’s been very informative.”

Wade also stands, but remains quiet and reserved beside me.

“If you have any questions on the remainder of the will, please do give me a call. Here’s my card, should you need it,” Mr. Peterson says, handing me a small rectangular card. It’s a thick, white piece of paper with gold letters embossed into the top that read Harper, Lance, and Scott.

“Thank you, I’ll keep that in mind,” I say, nodding as I set it on the table beside the wooden box.

“And do let me know if you figure out that box,” he says, grinning and tipping his chin toward it.

A halfhearted smile is as much as I can manage.

Wade must have sensed my agitation. He’s the first to move, walking out of the sitting room and over to the front door to open it. Mr. Peterson and I follow him. For the briefest of moments, the executor turns to me as if he’s going to ask another question or say something else, but instead fashions a smile and simply nods. Patting my shoulder, he walks out without another word, making his way down the front steps and over to his silver BMW parked in the front loop. With a quick nod, he settles into the vehicle and drives off.

The two of us stand there in relative silence, watching the car fade into the distance of the long driveway. When we can no longer make out the taillights, Wade closes the door.

“Well, that was…” he begins.

“Messed up?” I say, scratching at my eyebrow before walking back to the sitting room.

“I was gonna go with enlightening, but sure—that, too,” he says, following me.

I return to my seat, staring at the coffee table as if it might come up and bite me at a moment’s notice.

Wade sits down beside me, placing a hand on my leg. “Are you okay?”

“Of course she’s not all right, foolish man,” Abigail says, pacing in front of the fireplace.

I smile slightly, knowing Wade can’t hear her admonishment.

Rubbing my hand across my forehead, I