"I think we need to talk," he said. "About the trust."
I invited him in, mostly because leaving him on the porch felt like starting things off worse than they needed to start.
Jonah came downstairs when he heard voices, and Preston's eyes went to him immediately, something complicated moving across his face — not quite anger, not quite grief, some tangled version of both.
"Two hundred thousand dollars," Preston said. "To a kid he wasn't related to. Meanwhile my sister and I are looking at a house that needs a new roof and an estate that's smaller than either of us expected, once the trust gets carved out of it."
"Mr. Ferris explained it was all documented," I said carefully. "Eighteen months ago, updated twice since."
"I don't doubt the paperwork," Preston said. "I doubt the reasoning."
"He left a letter," Jonah said quietly. "Explaining it."
"I read it. Mr. Ferris gave us a copy the same afternoon he gave you the original." Preston's jaw tightened. "You know what stung worse than the number, kid? It's true. Every word of it. I called him twice a year. I told myself work was busy, my own kids had activities, there'd be time later. There's a version of me that's been telling myself there'd be time later for about six years running, and now there isn't any left to have."
