“Dependent on the father’s goodwill for housing,” Spencer’s voice said, into a silent room. “Use that.”
Then Angela stood.
She entered the Cedar Row Residential registration.
She entered the funeral check, uncashed, with Spencer’s handwriting on the memo line: Clothes. Court.
She entered the trust, and the letter from Celia Langford that Bernard had kept a copy of, because Celia had told him to, because Celia had known her son.
Judge Harwood read the letter aloud herself.
“To Laura. If you are reading this, Bernard has done his job and Spencer has not. I am leaving Eli’s future to you because you are the only one of us who has ever shown up for it on a Wednesday. The money is not for Spencer’s hotels. It is for a boy who likes the same four songs in the same order. Do not let anyone tell you that you cannot give him a future. You are the only one who ever has. — C.”
