Page 28 of Never Been Gargoyled
We got to work, making a quick lunch of sandwiches—two for him, one for me, plus I laid a bag of chips between us. We sat at the tiny table, him stretching out his wings to encircle the chair, and ate. While we consumed our lunch, he took notes of what we needed to do on a pad of paper.
After, he took the dishes to the sink, rinsed them, and put them in the dishwasher. I wasn’t sure I’d ever seen a guy do something like that without prompting.
Sitting again, he made a few more notations on the list and pulled out his phone. “I'll start with public records. Can you check social media, news articles, anything that might tell us who Rebecca is?”
“Sure.” I fetched my laptop and rejoined him again at the table. For the next hour, we worked in silence, occasionally sharing what we'd found.
Rebecca Hartwell was forty-eight years old. She lived in a city about an hour’s drive from here, and she worked as a marketing consultant for several high-end firms. Her LinkedIn profile looked polished andprofessional. Her Instagram showed a carefully curated life of expensive restaurants, designer clothes, and exotic vacations.
“She has money,” I said, studying a photo of Rebecca on what looked like a yacht. “Why would she want Helga's estate?”
“Maybe she doesn't have as much as she wants people to think.” Feydin didn’t look up from his phone. “Or maybe it's not about money. Maybe it's about family.”
I scrolled through more photos. Rebecca at charity galas. Rebecca at wine tastings. Rebecca in what looked like a penthouse apartment with floor-to-ceiling windows.
She was beautiful in a sharp, polished way. Blonde hair always perfectly styled, makeup flawless, clothing that probably cost more than I made in a month at the greenhouse.
Looking at her made me acutely aware of my own appearance. My bargain-store clothes, my wild hair that refused to behave, my complete lack of sophistication.
If this woman really was Helga's daughter, what judge would choose me over her?
“Found something,” Feydin said, breaking into my spiral of self-doubt.
I leaned over to see his screen. He'd pulled up what looked like a genealogy website.
“Birth certificate,” he said, pointing to a scanned document. “Rebecca Marie Hartwell, born forty-eight years ago. Mother listed as Helga Margaret Morrison.”
My stomach dropped. “So she really could be Helga's daughter.”
“It's possible.” His jaw was tight. “But birth certificates can be falsified. And even if it's real, it doesn't automatically invalidate Helga's will.”
“What do we do now?”
Feydin set down his phone and looked at me. “Now we respond to her text. Carefully. We agree to meet, but in a public place where we can control the situation.”
“Any idea where?”
“The tea shop. Tomorrow afternoon. Neutral ground, and Dorvak won't stand for any nonsense in his establishment.”
I nodded, grateful for Feydin’s steady presence. “What do I say to her?”
“Keep it simple. Professional.” He paused. “And Dazy? Don't let her intimidate you. You belong here. Whatever her claim might be, you have just as much right to this estate as she does.”
Maybe Dad was wrong. I wasn't in over my head.
With Feydin's help, I could fight for what was mine.
I typed out a response to Rebecca, my fingers steadier than they'd been since the text arrived.
Ms. Hartwell, I'd be happy to meet with you. How about tomorrow at 2 PM at Harmony Tea Shop here in Harmony Glen?
After I hit send, Feydin reached out and covered my hand with his.
“Whatever happens,” he said quietly, “you're not alone in this.”
My heart did that flipping thing again. “Thank you.”
“Don't thank me yet. Wait until we win.”
