Page 41 of With a Grain of Salt

I pocket my phone and head back inside. I may not get a windfall from Hux's death, but at least with the help of this attorney, I'll be able to know that for sure.

I don't feel any better about speaking with him when I realize money or no money, the man is going to expect to be paid. If there is money to be had, then it would be no problem. If not, it's going to be a very expensive conversation.

***

The second half of the day took what felt like forever to end, but somehow, despite it being Monday, we were able to get out of the office on time.

When my car starts right away, I refuse to think that my luck might be turning around. Hope is such a dangerous thing. I've been burned by it so many times in life, that I'm not certain that I have the ability to shift others' luck into the positive just by association.

There's only one pickup truck in the parking lot at Ditcher, Quick, and Hyde. As I get out of the car, I pray it belongs to the attorney and not some other person in town who is going to run to The Brew and Chew and let everyone know that I'm here.

The office looks to have been a small house at one point, the wooden ramp and wide front door seeming a little newer than everything else. Despite the season, the front flower beds are immaculate and well-maintained.

I feel awkward as I approach the front door, unsure if I should knock or just open the door. I obey the Come on in. We're OPEN sign and turn the knob, only to be met with a front reception area with a couple of chairs and a small desk.

From the computer screen on the desk, I hear some sort of sitcom with a laugh track in the background playing. It doesn't seem very professional, but how much work could a small-town attorney actually get? I imagine there are days filled with a whole lot of nothing.

"Grams!"

I startle at the yell coming from somewhere deeper in the office.

No one responds, but the phone begins to ring.

"Grams!"

A rustling meets my ears, and all I can do is stand in the middle of the reception area, looking and feeling insanely awkward. Yelling out that I’m here would only add to the chaos.

A few seconds later, the phone stops ringing and a large man fills the doorway of the room straight ahead.

"Mrs. Kennedy," he says, his smile growing but also somehow remaining guarded.

I hate to think the rumors are true, that this man hates women.

A door closing to his left draws both of our attention.

"Mrs. Kennedy is here," he says, waving his arm in my direction.

"That's lovely," the woman says, and I recognize her voice from my phone call earlier. "Hello, dear."

I smile at her as she shuffles toward me.

"Hello," I respond.

"I'm sorry I wasn't out here to welcome you. I was taking care of the trash."

He called her Grams earlier, and if this poor frail woman is his grandmother and he's making her come in and out of the cold to handle trash—

You know what? Not my business. If I want people to stay out of my business, then I don't get to have an opinion about their dynamic.

"I just arrived," I assure her.

"Come on back," Barret says, his voice gruff and sounding mildly annoyed.

"She's your grandmother?" I ask as I follow the sweep of his hand and take a seat in the chair across from him.

"You may call her Mrs. Hyde," he says rather than directly answering my question. "I stayed late for this meeting. Let's talkabout why you're here."

"It was brought to my attention that my late husband would've possibly had a payout after his death. The Servicemembers' Group Life insurance more specifically."

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