The solicitor's letter uses my new name.
That's the first thing I noticed. Not the news — though the news landed, it landed heavily — but the name. Harrison Hargreaves. Someone knew. Someone was paying attention closely enough to know I'd changed it and made sure the letter found the right person.
He's dead. I need to write that plainly. Reginald Hargreaves is dead and has left something behind and the will summons me by name.
I've made two cups of tea. I've stood at the window for a while. I've read the letter four times. I'm now doing what I always do when I don't know what to feel, which is write into it and hope the right thing surfaces.
What I know: there will be siblings I haven't seen in seven years. There is something in that house that only one person may ultimately claim, and I know enough about this particular collection of people to know that is not a peaceful situation. There are answers in that building I have never had access to.
What I feel: the pull, immediate and not entirely rational. The name on the letter, which is the name I chose because it was his, because whatever else he was I am made of him, and now he is gone and I cannot arrive at a clean feeling about that any more than I could the night in the pub.
Mom will be there. Semi-functional, according to the solicitor's notes. I hope that means she still makes the soup.
I hope Rhys is all right. I've thought about him more than I've admitted to myself. The small kindnesses. The book, the biscuits, the journal he handed me when I was twelve and said everyone should have somewhere to put things. Everything I've written has been in some variation of the book he gave me. He didn't know that would matter as much as it did. I don't think he'd want to be told.
I'm going. That decision was made the moment I finished reading.
I don't know what I'm going to find in that house. I know I'm not the person who left it. I know that counts for something, even if I don't know yet for what.