Page 106 of Gifted & Talented

Everyone looks at Meredith except for Eilidh. Eilidh stares straight ahead at a fixed point on the wall. Meredith looks at Lou and seems unsurprised.

John: And as for the, ah, the money. And such. That is all to be split equally between his descendants. Meredith Honora Wren, Arthur Everett Wren, Eilidh Olympia Wren, and—

John stops again. Monster points to something, then claps and looks at Lou as if for confirmation that he has done well.

John: The unborn child of Thayer Wren and Dzhuliya Aguilar.

Now every head in the room swivels to Dzhuliya except for Ryan, the younger lawyer who has known the contents of the will this whole time. He is looking smugly at Meredith for reasons that are probably very petty, based purely on the type of glance it seems to be.

Now both Eilidh and Arthur look as though they will vomit.

Eilidh: Is. This. A fucking. Joke.?

Gillian makes a compulsive attempt to pacify the situation.

Gillian: This is… it’s wonderful news, of course—

Eilidh: I’m going to be sick.

Arthur: How much money is there, exactly?

John looks heavenward for bolstering. Predictably no one answers.

John: Thayer Wren’s net worth is in the billions, but nearly all of that is tied up in Wrenfare. His actual assets include this house, the flat in San Francisco—

Eilidh and Meredith, in unison: What flat in San Francisco?

Dzhuliya reddens. Eilidh’s expression doesn’t change, though her eyes begin to look unfocused with rage. She looks as though distracted, as if there is a buzzing in her head growing louder and louder, a swarm incoming.

Meredith speaks faintly, some of her careful stillness slipping.

Meredith: Oh.

John continues on as if nobody interrupted.

John: And there is the summer house that Thayer Wren co-owned with his late wife Persephone, and the cars. As for the money in his personal accounts, they contain about two million dollars, not all of which is liquid.

Meredith: Is that including his investment accounts?

John: Yes.

Arthur: And that’s split between the… four of us.

It isn’t a question; more like someone repeating out loud the most ridiculous thing they have ever heard, just to be sure everyone else is hearing it too.

John coughs as if something is stuck in his throat.

John: Yes.

Silence.

Lou: Okay, look, I know I don’t actually go here, but we’re all thinking it. Obviously that’s a substantial sum of money for anyone, but we’re talking about one of the richest men in the fucking world.

Meredith and Lou lock eyes and skitter away.

Nobody: Where did all the money go?

Eilidh looks repulsed, physically sick, like her appendix is bursting. The next words out of her mouth seem to pain her, as if someone has surgically removed them from her throat. She forces them out like she should be enjoying them; like she should mean them. Like shoving another piece of sickly sweet cake between her lips.

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