Page 108 of Ugly Truths
Rising abruptly, I tower over my younger brother, who suddenly seems much smaller, slumped against the couch cushions. I'm aware of Natalie's glare to reel it in, but I ignore it.
“You’re lucky I’m asking you directly after some of the shit you pulled,” I seethe so low it’s barely audible. Jeremy’s eyes widen. I have no idea if it’s fear or guilt that holds him hostage, but he stays quiet. “Sneaking around to board members with Dad, trying to make them doubt my abilities.” Jeremy shrinks under my gaze.
I lean in, eyes not straying from his. “I'll ask you one more time, and you better consider your answer carefully.” My voice drops. “Is there anything you want to tell us?”
Jeremy’s face flushes a deep red before he crosses his arms.
Almost reluctantly, he mutters, “He never told me what was on the servers. He just asked me to go with Brenden to the satellite office and report back on what Davey was finding.” He pauses before continuing, almost to himself, “I guess that makes sense now.”
Natalie and I exchange a look. Jeremy’s always been a terrible liar. Incompetence can be masked, but Jeremy never mastered that art outside of superficial interactions.
My eyes flick back to my brother and then to my sister again before I nod once. Natalie silently agrees. Jeremy has likely been in the dark as much as the rest of us have.
Something eases in my chest knowing that my brother won’t have to be another person I need to deal with. But it doesn’t change the fact that I don’t trust him, and probably never will.
The sound of footsteps on tile breaks the silence that had settled over the three of us. All at once, we look through the cased openings as Davey comes into view with my father’s lawyer and an old family friend, Jonathan Hale, in tow.
My siblings and I adopt our well-practiced facades. Sad smiles are exchanged, and we move in for brief, consoling hugs with Mr. Hale. The veneer of solidarity, whenever outsiders are present, is a dance we learned early in life.
Though Jeremy maintains a slight distance, Natalie greets Davey. Not wanting to delay this any longer, I gesture for everyone to takea seat, with Mr. Hale positioning himself on the couch to utilize the coffee table for his briefcase.
“Let’s discuss the next steps,” he suggests gently, pulling out his documents. As if flipping a switch, we set aside our grievances for the moment, our expressions schooled into those of attentive children.
I take the lead, gesturing for Mr. Hale to begin. “Please, go ahead.”
—
Mr. Hale has been hunched over the coffee table, which has served as his temporary desk for almost an hour, going over many of the finer details of how the trust works, including how we can contest it if we so choose. However, he made it clear that this option was an uphill battle.
His paperwork is organized into neat stacks across the polished surface, documents meticulously ordered. As he flips through each section, his wire-rimmed glasses slide down the front of his nose.
“Per the terms of the primary family trust, Mr. Wells's outside investments are to be divided equally among his three children. This includes any commercial real estate assets not already held in corporate structures. Detailed contact information for his financial advisors has been provided to assist in the transfer process,” he announces.
We each nod in quiet acknowledgment before he moves on.
“In addition,” he says, flipping to the next page, “a lump sum of two million dollars will be granted through the Wells Charitable Trust to the Harper Foundation for Ovarian Cancer Research. Mr. Wells noted this was an organization he and his wife, Caroline, supported during her treatment, with the hope that this gift will bring further awareness and access to early detection resources.”
Hale and Jeremy’s expressions soften, and I almost roll my eyes.
Even when my mother was alive, there was little my father wouldactuallysacrifice for her. Every decision was calculated. This one probably hit a tax bracket and a PR sweet spot simultaneously.
Still, if this helps someone else’s mother catch it early, then maybe that counts for something.
“To his surviving sister, Mr. Wells allocated his extensive collection of paintings,” Hale continues, tone returning to neutral. “Though Georgia was invited to join us, she was unable to attend. We’ll ensure she receives all relevant documentation regarding the transfer and management of the collection.”
Natalie stiffens at this. Those paintings are probably the only items she actually cared about. In typical William fashion, he’d never paid attention to what mattered to her.
Davey places a comforting hand on her back, and she leans into him slightly, a faint, sad smile flickering across her lips.
Hale shifts again. “The primary residence, along with its contents, was moved into a residential property trust last year. Ownership and all decision-making authority regarding the house and its belongings are assigned to Jeremy Wells. William’s personal properties in Cape Elizabeth, Mustique, and Portofino are to be split equally among the three children, with trustees managing the sales or distributions.”
There’s a beat of silence where no one says a thing. I stare ahead, but the room blurs slightly at the edges.
The house where our mother raised us.
Where she died.
I’d always assumed there’d come a day when William might finally let me keep some of the things that still made her feel real. The mahogany writing desk in her hobby room. The fine china she picked out in Italy the year she was pregnant with me. The painting of her in the formal sitting room I used to get lost in every time I visited.
