Page 127 of Knights Game

She places the wine glass down on the table then goes to hunt for it.

I pick up a document and start reading, but my eyes are already bleeding, the words blur together into an incoherent jumble.

“Got it.” She waves the manila envelope and passes it to me followed by the wine, which I gratefully sip turning back to the document.

Last will and testament of Sarah Johnson and Martin Johnson.

“So final,” I say as I stare at the bold font on the page. “I swear when I write one of these, I’m putting it on scented paper with unicorns and rainbows. It’s so depressing.”

I let the paper fall into my lap then pick up the envelope.

“Why do you think it’s sealed?” I ask, turning it over. It looks like a bog-standard envelope, brown, A3 and fat, like it’s been stuffed to the brim, cello tape seals it shut. It’s not addressed, and the tape has started coming away at the ends, the once clear plastic yellowing at the edges.

The envelope edges are curled and crinkled like it's been shoved at the bottom of the box and forgotten about.

“Only one way to find out,” Katy says, picking up papers, reading them, then placing them in piles. “Four piles.” I look at her. “Will, bills, deeds, and random shit. That pile is the biggest. It’s a jumbled mess.”

“Thanks for helping.”

“Don’t mention it.” She waves me off. “Besides, being in this penthouse is better than sitting on marketing calls trapped in a soddingpremier inn.”

“How’s Roman?” I ask, partly to wind her up, partly because I want to know the gossip. “Still having mind-blowing sex with little cock?”

“No comment,” she says but the sheepish grin and flush on her chest suggests she is. “And I thought I debunked him having a small cock.” She makes a shape with her hand, depicting the size, (lengthy)and girth (plenty)and I laugh.

I pull the tape; it comes away easily and open the envelope. “Oh, jolly good, more paper.” While fishing out additional documents, I dislodge the bulk from the jammed envelope and shake out the remaining contents, revealing a folded paper and a small black key.

Katy takes one of the documents that has come out and goes silent as she reads. I sip my wine, as her face loses all colour.

“Why do you look like your insides have just fallen out your vagina?” I ask, unease uncurling in my stomach.

“Look at this article.” She passes me the piece of paper, a newspaper article, where the headline reads.

Car Accident kills three.

“Three? But there were only two,” I say, frowning,

“Not according to that article, it says there were three people.”

I read the newspaper clipping. “A pedestrian was killed as well? How have I never known that?”

“Maybe your grandad was protecting you whilst you were in the hospital.”

“I guess that makes sense. With his dementia, maybe he had forgotten. He was grieving just as much as me at the time.”

She goes quiet and frowns, reading another piece of paper. “I think you need to read this.”

I take it and see my mother’s messy handwriting. Swallowing a huge lump, I struggle with a sudden bout of nausea. Everything suddenly feels very bright.

With shaking hands, I turn it over.

To our beloved Layla,

Please forgive us.

We love you always.

Mum x

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