Fold

I give her a tight smile. “I'm go

Although she's about as harmless as a stuffed dove, I don't want her checking up on me while I'm in there. At least now she'll be distracted.

Her face perks up, like she's relieved she can do something for me.

I wait until she scurries off before I trek my way to his office.

It looks exactly like it did the last time I was home.

The large oak desk is spotless and shiny, courtesy of Ms. Panfile. The brown leather office chairs are made for business, but comfortable enough to endure long meetings. Football memorabilia line the shelves, but not enough to be considered tacky, more like a tasteful homage to his favorite sport. And when my eyes scan the corner of the room, I notice the small bar still has various bottles of top-shelf whiskey to choose from.

Not a single thing is out of place. Including the computer that sits smack dab in the center of his desk.

The one he doesn't enable the password protection for because our house has top of the line security, and according to him, an intruder would never make it this far.

Fucking idiot. Computer passwords aren't for home intruders. It's to stop those who pry.

I press a key on the keyboard and a second later, a younger version of him in his Duke's Heart football jersey illuminates the screen.

He looks so much like my brother, it's sickening.

I plop down in the chair and pull up a browser so I can auto-log into his bank...

And then I freeze.

It doesn't take a genius to figure out a man on life-support wouldn't be logging into his bank account.

Even though I'm almost positive his accident isn't raising any red flags with the authorities, it doesn't mean his financial attorneys won't comb through things and report anything deemed suspicious.

Like a large installment of money being transferred mere hours before his death.

My stomach lurches, and I know I'm being paranoid about this...but the man wasn't exactly a recluse or a Joe-Schmo. He was a filthy rich sports team owner.

And when a rich person dies before their time, regardless of the circumstances, foul play is always presumed.

At least, that's what all the crime shows on T.V. lead us to believe.

I rest my elbows on the desk and press the heels of my palms to my eyes. I'm completely stumped as to what my next move should be.

I'm starting to feel like I'm in the middle of a fucked-up poker game.

Do I log in and check...this way I can see what the flop will bring? Or do I cover my ass and fold before the flop...because my cards aren't all that great to begin with?

Then again, any decent poker player knows it's less about the cards and more about how you play the hand you've been dealt.

If you play with a good strategy, you can still win with a shitty hand.

I crack my knuckles and pull out my phone. My best course of action is to go right to the source.

My father never made a move without consulting Bob, his financial attorney and close friend. And lucky for me, I know him fairly well. He even pulled some strings and got me an internship with a stockbroker firm last summer.

I don't know why I didn't think of calling him before.

Bob, like most attorneys, burns the midnight oil, so I'm not surprised when he picks up on the first ring. “Hey, Preston. I'm still getting caught up with everything on my end. I'm so sorry.”

“Yeah.” My voice conveys just the right amount of sadness. “Thanks, Bob. It's been—” I pause for dramatic effect. “It's been a really hard day.”

“I bet. I tried to tell him appointing a healthcare proxy without explicit instructions regarding life-sustaining measures wasn't ideal, but he didn't listen.” He sighs heavily. “Anyway, I'm sorry I didn't call you earlier, kiddo. I've been a bit tied up with paperwork. In addition to handling all of your mother's phone calls of course.”

I hear him strike a match in the background. “I reminded her what she agreed to in the event of his death when she signed that God-awful prenup, but needless to say, she's still pissed.”

At that, my ears perk up...until he says, “Not to be rude or anything, but is your brother around by any chance?”

His question throws me. “No, he's spending the night with his girlfriend.” I sit up straight. “I can tell him to call you, though. Is it an emergency? Something important that you need to tell the both of us?”

“Not exactly, but it is urgent.” He takes a long drag off his cigarette. “Given how irate your mother is, I think it's best I sit and talk with him before she comes home and things get ugly. She's already threatening to put him in another facility and contest the will.”

A strange feeling skitters up my spine. It's not that what he's saying doesn't make sense. In fact, it makes perfect sense. The man's body isn't even cold yet and already she wants to raise hell.

What doesn't make sense, however, is why Bob's asking to speak to Asher when I'm the primary beneficiary.

Nerves bunch in my stomach and I undo the first few buttons of my shirt, hoping it will get rid of this constricting feeling.

When that doesn't work, I walk over and pour myself a glass of the most expensive whiskey on the bar. Macallan 25.

I take a refreshing sip and come to the obvious conclusion that my father must have stuck Asher back in the will after all.

I'm not upset, seeing as I was pla

I raise my glass to my lips, mulling over his words from before. “Yeah, it's probably a good idea for the three of us to get together and formulate a plan on how to deal with her.”

He's silent for a moment too long before he says, “Sure. Your brother's going to need all the support he can get when she comes home, given she's going to fight him tooth and nail.” He swallows thickly. “And you know I'm always happy to sit down and give you advice about your classes at Yale.”

Suddenly the stupid transfer is the least of my worries and the sick feeling in my stomach is back with a vengeance.

What in the actual fuck is going on?

“I appreciate that, Bob. I'll be sure to take you up on that soon. However, I really want to talk about my father's will...seeing as he informed me a few months ago that I was his primary beneficiary.”

My knuckles rap against the desk. Check.

Come on, Bobbie. Let's see that flop.

“You know, on second thought. I think we're getting a bit ahead of ourselves here. It's probably best that we wait and see what the next few days will bring before discussing this any further.”

He's circumventing, there's no doubt about it, but I remain calm and raise him downright confrontation.

“According to the doctors, he's not coming back from this. Therefore, I don't really see the point in drawing this out and waiting for the inevitable. And up until a moment ago, you didn't either, given you were so quick to want to talk to my brother about it.”

He clears his throat. “It's my professional opinion that you should wait and see if you receive a copy of the will before jumping to any conclusions.”

Oh, now he's going to get all professional on me. Fuck that.

Sweat drips down my back and my hands clench at my sides. Most poker players would say I'm experiencing tilt right now. Which is a nice way of saying your emotions are getting the best of you and you need to fold because you can't think clearly.