Sidebarred: A Legal Briefs Novella(4)

Robert and Rachel McQuaid had a sizable life-insurance policy when they died, so even with six kids to care for, money isn’t really an issue for us. The house is paid off, each of the kids has a healthy college fund, and being a founding partner of my own law firm, I do pretty damn well. But—thanks to the advice of my best friend and partner, Brent Mason, who inherited more money than he’ll ever be able to spend—we keep that info from the kids. It’s important for them to have ambition, to set goals for themselves—I don’t want them ever thinking they can waste their lives living off money someone else earned for them.

“Fine.” Riley sighs. She looks at her brother. “How long are you going to be at the library?”

Raymond cleans his Harry Potter–like glasses. “Three or four hours.”

“Okay—text me when you’re ready to be picked up.”

Raymond nods.

And just like that, plain old chaos becomes organized chaos.

This is my life now. And it’s pretty f*cking great.





Chapter 2

I crouch down and pull out the weeds around the white marble, then brush away the grass clippings clinging to the etched name.

“Hey, Judge!” Ronan’s baby-sweet voice chirps. He places a pot of forget-me-nots at the base of the headstone proudly. “We got these for you. They’re like the color the sky gets sometimes.”

His round eyes look up at me. “Can I go look at the statues?”

I nod, smiling. “Stay where I can see you. And don’t run on the graves—it’s disrespectful.”

“Got it!” He scampers away, toward the large old crypt in the center of the cemetery.

The Judge passed away six months ago, but it feels like he’s been gone a lot longer. His last year was rough. Advanced Alzheimer’s is a bitch. He stopped speaking, eating, walking. It was almost . . . a relief when he went. Because the real Atticus Faulkner—the man who saved me from prison and from myself—would’ve never wanted to live the way he was living then.

I used to visit him in the nursing home every week. These days I stop by once a month, to let him know I’m still thinking of him, still grateful for all the things he taught me. And . . . because I just miss him.

“Hey, old man. What’s new?”

No, I don’t actually expect an answer. Chelsea’s Catholic, and so are the kids, but I’m . . . nothing. Our wedding was held at sunset, in the garden outside our reception venue. I would’ve converted—for her—but Chelsea didn’t want to wait as long as we would’ve had to, to do the deed in a church. I don’t know if I even believe in God . . . but the Judge?

I believed in him.

“The scholarship has been running for the last month. We’re already getting submissions. Lots of smart kids who’ve done some stupid shit in their lives.”

The Judge didn’t have any family, so he left his entire estate to me, with a note: You’ll know what to do with it. I didn’t, at first, and I cursed the son of a bitch for not being more specific. I imagine he got a good laugh over that—he never liked making things too easy for me. But then I got it: The Atticus Faulkner Scholarship. It’s open to high school students with difficult backgrounds who can show they’re smart and willing to work hard. The scholarship will pay for their education.

“Lots of kids who remind me of me—you’d get a kick out of them.”

I hang out at the cemetery a little longer talking to the Judge and watching Ronan running around in circles, like our dog, Cousin It, chasing his tail. Before we head out, I tap the top of the headstone. “See you soon, Judge.”

****

Later that afternoon, I’m in the den watching the baseball game. Except for Riley and Raymond, the kids are scattered throughout the house, but it’s quiet, which is a rare commodity around here. Chelsea comes in and hands me an iced tea.

“Thanks.”

“Sure.”

She sits beside me on the couch, facing me, her legs tucked, her pretty feet curled under her. Yes—Chelsea has pretty f*cking feet, okay? I never knew feet could be pretty—until I saw hers.

“So . . . that talk I mentioned before? We should probably have that now, while we can.”

I take a sip of my drink and nod. “Yeah—I wasn’t at all hoping you’d forget about it or anything.”

Her face slides into a grin. “Funny.”

I look back at her, straight-faced. “I’m a funny guy.”

When she doesn’t say anything for a few moments, I ask, “What’s up?”

Because now I’m actually getting concerned. My stomach tightens as I brace for whatever’s worrying her—and before I even know what I’m up against, in my head I’m already planning all the ways I’ll take care of it. Because that’s what I do—and I’m good at it.

But what she tells me next blows my f*cking mind.

“I’m late.”

Two words—ten thousand thoughts exploding in my head at once.

I’m a big guy, six-five, 225 pounds of muscle. Guys like me, our voices don’t squeak. But at this moment, mine comes damn close.

“Like . . . for an appointment?”

Chelsea’s beautiful face is tense and her crystal-blue eyes are iced over with worry. She takes the biggest breath and says, “No.”