Page 17 of From West, With Regret

“This is she. Who is this?”

“My name is Mercedes Rhodes, one of the lawyers from the firm that represented your husband Heath Hall.”

“Oh.” I blink, running my hand nervously down the front of my thigh before sitting on the edge of the bed.

“According to your husband and his family, I was instructed to give you this call in the event of the situation we are in.”

Nervous, I look down at my lap and pick at a loose thread on Selene’s blanket folded beside me. “Situation?”

“Yes. My partner, Eli? You spoke with him before about the funeral. He handles the wishes of our clients regarding the funeral service. I handle the financial side of things. Everything from estates to bank accounts to investments.”

“Okay,” I mutter, not knowing where she’s going with this.

Mercedes pauses, no doubt waiting for me to ask a question. When I don’t, she clears her throat and continues. “Your husband instructed us to turn over his apartment and bank accounts to his mother. He doesn’t mention you in his will to receive any financial benefits from his death. We’ve also spoken with his insurance company, and there was no policy for you, either.”

Tears sting the corners of my eyes. “I, um, I don’t understand.”

“I’m sorry.” Her voice softens. “The only money and assets you keep are ones you had before your marriage to him. Ones you owned before him.”

My eyes widen as they fill with tears. I take a mental inventory of everything I own that didn’t involve my husband.

A bank account in my name, but not with nearly enough money in it to stay afloat on my own for long.

And my belongings in Heath’s apartment.

“What about my clothes and some of my possessions?” I ask Mercedes, swiping the tears from my cheeks. “I had those things before I married him. Can I come get those?”

She hesitates. “I’m sorry. The instructions specifically state that upon his burial, you are no longer allowed access to his estate. Our firm will gather your belongings and send them to you. I will send you an email for you to list all the pieces and items that are yours. Is there an address you would like us to deliver them to?”

The air is sucked from my lungs. Is this evenlegal?

I think of everything I own inside that Boston high-rise apartment. Not much is valuable or sentimental, aside from a few items standing out to me, but the most important ones are my art supplies and a few pieces I’ve created in the makeshift studio Heath allowed me to have in our apartment.

Part of me wants to resist and fight back against Heath’s wishes from beyond the grave, but the other doesn’t. I have a separate bank account—one Heath never had access to—but I know there won’t be enough money there. Not when if I want to take on the team of lawyers backing Heath. Even if I did have the money, I’m not certain I would bother, because putting in the effort would stop me from letting my tumultuous marriage with Heath go.

The memory of the cold tile beneath my hands and feet is more alive than ever.

A sea of broken glass surrounding me, and the grating echo of my husband’s screams make it easier to let him go.

I shouldn’t be surprised by this move.

It’s typical of Heath. Ask for everything, leave me with nothing.

I straighten my back. “Sure. You can email it over.”

“I’ll do that once we end this call.” Mercedes voice is filled with sympathy. “Again, Mrs. Hall, I’m so sorry, and I’m sorry for your loss.”

The cynical chuckle of irony barely leaves my throat before Mercedes abruptly ends our call.

I drop my phone beside me and bury my face in my hands. No fresh tears come when I inhale three long and steady breaths. I squeeze my eyes shut, and the image of the clock tower plays in my mind, as it always does. I’ve researched it enough to recognize it as Big Ben, or by its other name, Elizabeth tower. In London.

The image playing in my mind now isn’t the same as the photos taken or the one in real life, though. It’s a small piece of metal, refracting in the sun. The sight of it warms my gut, filling me with a sense of comfort and peace.

I clench my fists, digging my black-painted nails into my palms. The sensation stings, pulling me out of what I assume to be a memory.

“Hey.” Selene’s soft voice causes my eyes to fly open. I snap my head to my left and look up at my sister. She’s clutching the towel wrapped around her chest, and her blonde hair is draped across her shoulder, dripping wet. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” I blow out, looking back down to my hands in my lap before my attention drifts to my arm and West’s faded number. “I’m fine.”

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