Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 77170 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77170 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
A silver truck whizzes by us.
I do a double take, nearly running off the road.
Dad grabs the steering wheel, maneuvering the car into the right lane. “What the hell are you doing, Brendan?”
“Dad, that was Ava’s truck.”
Dad glances behind him. “How do you know that?”
“Because I’ve never seen another pickup truck that color, Dad. Who the hell else has a silver truck?” I can’t help but smile. “A silver sedan, sure, or an SUV, but a silver pickup?”
“A lot of people. You’re imagining things.”
I shake my head. “I’m not imagining things. That is Ava’s truck. What is she doing here in the city?”
“Why don’t you call her and ask her?” He holds up his hand. “Scratch that. Don’t talk on the phone while you’re driving.”
“Screw that.” I grab my cell phone out of my pocket, keeping my eye trained on the road in front of me. “Siri, call Ava Steel.”
It rings several times before it goes to voicemail.
“Ava? It’s me. I’m not sure, but I think I just saw your truck on the road to Grand Junction. Dad and I are on our way to talk to an attorney. Where are you? I’m worried about you. Call me, please. I love you.” I end the call and toss the phone into the cupholder.
Dad eyes the phone. “So she didn’t answer.”
“Nope. Which means it probably was her. She’s very careful about talking on the phone while driving.”
“Surely she would’ve picked up when she saw it was you.”
“Only if she looked.”
Something gnaws in my stomach. I don’t like the feeling. I feel like Ava’s walking into something…or driving into something…
What was she doing in Grand Junction today?
“How much longer until we get there?” Dad asks. “I could go for a bite. I love Rita’s pastries, but they don’t keep you full for long.”
“We’ll have time to grab a quick lunch before the meeting,” I say. “Not that I can eat.”
“For God’s sake, Brendan. Ava’s fine. That wasn’t her truck.”
Except it was her truck. I won’t be able to convince my father of that, but I know it was.
She was going awfully fast.
“Misters Murphy.” A tall man in a gray pinstripe suit holds out his hand. “I’m Linus Brown. Yes, my parents had a sense of humor. Nice to meet you both.”
“Call me Brendan,” I say.
“Very well, Brendan. Why don’t you and your father come on back? I set up one of our small conference rooms for us to talk.”
We follow Mr. Brown to a large conference room where two other individuals are already sitting—a young woman with blond hair and a dark-haired man wearing a navy-blue suit.
“I’d like you to meet my associate, Mary Finnegan, and my paralegal, George Stearns.”
We shake hands all around, and then Dad and I sit across the table.
“I did some research into the Steel Trust,” Mr. Brown says, “and unfortunately I can’t find a lot of information. Trusts aren’t required to be registered or recorded anywhere, so we have only limited information available. These are old liens, some of which predate the mortgages on the properties, which is unusual in itself, as most mortgage companies won’t write loans on encumbered properties.”
Dad nods. “The whole thing stinks. This can’t possibly be legal.”
“I assure you it’s legal. It’s just unusual. But we’re getting ahead of ourselves.” Mr. Brown shuffles some papers. “The first thing we’ll do is send a letter to this law firm to let them know that all of you who received letters are declining to pay the liens at this time. We can hold them off for a couple of weeks with some legal jargon. That will give us more time to look into this trust with more specificity. We can also put our investigators on it if you’d like.”
“If the Steel investigators haven’t been able to find anything, I doubt that yours will,” I say.
“So you believe the Steel family has nothing to do with this trust?” the paralegal asks.
“I do,” I say. “Which is why I asked Donny Steel to recommend a lawyer.”
“Don’s a good man,” Mr. Brown says. “He and I went to law school together. I never understood why he gave up that cushy partnership track in Denver to be the city attorney for Snow Creek.”
“As a favor to his mother,” I say.
“Yeah, that’s what he tells me. I guess when you’re born rich, it doesn’t matter if you make any money in your chosen career.”
I’m not sure what to say to that, so I simply nod.
“Mary and I have drawn up a letter.” Mr. Brown slides a paper toward us.
We glance over it.
“This is just a standard language letter, telling the law firm that you’re refusing to make payment at this time until we find out more about the trust. We’re throwing around some legal terms to give us the few weeks we need.”