Page 45 of Never Been Gargoyled
“I can’t find anything else online, so I’ll go work outside.” She left, stroking her fingers across the tips of my wings as she passed, making me shiver with need.
It took time to compose myself after she’d left, but I stiffened my backbone and lifted my phone.
The first person I reached was an old colleague from law school who specialized in estate law. After I explained the situation, she was direct in her assessment.
“If the birth certificate is legitimate, she has a strong case,” she said. “Biological children typically have inheritance rights regardless of what the will says, especially if they can prove the parent knew about them.”
“Even if the parent chose not to leave them anything?”
“That's where it gets complicated. She'd have to prove Helga deliberately excluded her. If Helga genuinely didn't know if she was alive…”
“Then the will could be invalid.”
“At least partially. A judge might order the estate split between the biological daughter and the named heir.”
My stomach sank. That wasn't what Dazy needed to hear.
But Helgahadknown. Rebecca said she’d reached out to her numerous times. Was this before Helga started to get early-onset dementia or after?
I thanked my colleague and hung up, then immediately called another lawyer who dealt with contested wills. His assessment was similar. Rebecca had a legitimate claim, and it would be difficult to dismiss.
Through the window, I could see Dazy working in one of the side gardens, her red hair bright in the afternoon sunlight. She was sashaying her hips, and if I knew my mate, she was humming the same melody that seemed to follow her everywhere. The sight of her, so content despite everything hanging over us, made my heart pinch with protective instincts.
I couldn't let Rebecca take this away from her.
Setting the documents aside, I searched the internet for more clues but found nothing. I leaned back in my chair and puffed out a breath, then decided to channel my frustration into something useful. The estate needed work, and keeping my hands busy might help me think more clearly.
I started with the shutters. As she’d said while we sat on the roof, many were hanging askew, making the beautiful old house look neglected. Flying up to thesecond-story windows made this job easy, and there were plenty of tools to fix the loose hinges in the shed.
As I straightened one shutter after another, I watched Dazy working below. She'd moved closer to the house and was weeding a flower bed. I caught her glancing up at me regularly. Was she checking on my progress or worried I might fall?
Or was shewatchingme with the same interest I showed toward her?
The thought made my wings snap out involuntarily. I gripped the shutter tighter, trying to focus on the task at hand before I tumbled to the ground. But knowing she might be looking at me with interest made my hands unsteady.
When I'd finished with the shutters, I moved to the exterior wall where ivy had climbed almost to the roof. The vines were beautiful, but they'd work their way into the mortar and cause damage. They had to go.
I landed on the ground and retrieved the shears from the garden shed. The ivy was thick and woody in places, requiring significant force to cut through.
“Be careful with those shears,” Dazy called out from where she worked on a flower bed on the other side of the path weaving around the building. “They're really sharp.”
The concern in her voice made my heart race. Shewasworried about me. That had to mean something, right?
“I will,” I said, then promptly sliced through a particularly thick vine with more enthusiasm than skill. Theshears slipped. Pain shot across my left hand as the blade caught the side of my palm.
I hissed and flew down to the ground, dropping the shears and pressing my right hand against the wound.
“Feydin?” Alarm sharpened Dazy's voice as she came closer. “What happened?”
“Nothing serious.” Though blood was seeping between my fingers. “It’s only a small cut.”
“Let me see.” She reached for my hand, her touch gentle but insistent.
I let her examine the wound, trying not to focus on how her soft fingers felt on my skin. She was so close, I could smell her shampoo, could see the concern written across her face.
“This needs to be cleaned and bandaged,” she said. “Come inside.”
“It's fine?—”
