“Helena’s funeral was . . . interesting.” I lean back against the seat. “I guess that’s the upside of knowing that you’re about to die. You get to bully people a bit. Tell them that if they don’t play ‘Karma Chameleon’ while lowering your casket your ghost will haunt their progeny for generations.”
“I’m just glad you guys were able to be with her in the last few days,” Sadie says.
I smile wistfully. “She was the worst till the very end. She cheated in our last chess game. As if she wouldn’t have beaten me anyway.” I miss her. An inordinate amount. Helena Harding, my Ph.D. advisor and mentor for the past eight years, was family in a way my cold, distant blood relatives never cared to be. But she was also elderly, in a lot of pain, and, as she liked to put it, eager to move on to bigger projects.
“It was so lovely of her to leave you her D.C. house,” Hannah says. She must have moved to a better fjord, because I can actually make out her words. “Now you’ll have a place to be, no matter what.”
It’s true. It’s all true, and I am immensely grateful. Helena’s gift was as generous as it was unexpected, easily the kindest thing anyone has ever done for me. But the reading of the will was a week ago, and there’s something I haven’t had a chance to tell my friends. Something closely related to houses on fire. “About that . . .”
“Uh-oh.” Two sets of brows furrow. “What happened?”
“It’s . . . complicated.”
“I love complicated,” Sadie says. “Is it also dramatic? Let me go get tissues.”
“Not sure, yet.” I take a fortifying breath. “The house Helena left me, as it turns out, she didn’t really . . . own it.”
“What?” Sadie aborts the tissue mission to frown at me.
“Well, she did own it. But only a little. Only . . . half.”
“And who owns the other half?” Trust Hannah to zoom in on the crux of the problem.
“Originally, Helena’s brother, who died and left it to his kids. Then the youngest son bought out the others, and now he’s the sole owner. Well, with me.” I clear my throat. “His name is Liam. Liam Harding. He’s a lawyer in his early thirties. And he currently lives in the house. Alone.”
Sadie’s eyes widen. “Holy shit. Did Helena know?”
“I have no clue. You’d assume, but the Hardings are such a weird family.” I shrug. “Old money. Lots of it. Think Vanderbilts. Kennedys. What even goes on in rich people’s brains?”
“Probably monocles,” Hannah says.
I nod. “Or topiary gardens.”
“Cocaine.”
“Polo tournaments.”
“Cuff links.”
“Hang on,” Sadie interrupts us. “What did Liam Vanderbilt Kennedy Harding say about this at the funeral?”
“Excellent question, but: he wasn’t there.”
“He didn’t show up to his aunt’s funeral?”
“He doesn’t really keep in touch with his family. Lots of drama, I suspect.” I tap my chin. “Maybe they’re less Vanderbilts, more Kardashians?”
“Are you saying that he doesn’t know that you own the other half of his house?”
“Someone gave me his number and I told him I’d be coming around.” I pause before adding, “Via text. We haven’t talked yet.” Another pause. “And he didn’t really . . . reply.”
“I don’t like this,” Sadie and Hannah say in unison. Any other time I’d laugh about their hive mind, but there’s something else I still haven’t told them. Something they’ll like even less.
“Fun fact about Liam Harding . . . You know how Helena was like, the Oprah of environmental science?” I chew on my lower lip. “And she always joked that her entire family was mostly liberal-leaning academics out to save the world from the clutches of big corporations?”
“Yeah?”
“Her nephew is a corporate lawyer for FGP Corp.” Just saying the words makes me want to gargle with mouthwash. And floss. My dentist will be thrilled.
“FGP Corp—the fossil fuels people?” A deep line appears in the middle of Sadie’s brow. “Big oil? Supermajors?”
“Yep.”
“Oh my God. Does he know you’re an environmental scientist?”
“Well, I did give him my name. And my LinkedIn profile is just a Google search away. Do rich people use LinkedIn, you think?”
“No one uses LinkedIn, Mara.” Sadie rubs her temple. “Jesus Christ, this is really bad.”
“It’s not that bad.”
“You can’t go meet with him alone.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“He’ll kill you. You’ll kill him. You’ll kill each other.”
“I . . . maybe?” I close my eyes and lean back against the seat. I’ve been talking myself out of panicking for seventy-two hours—with mixed results. I can’t crack now. “Believe me, he’s the last person I want to co-own a house with. But Helena did leave half of it to me, and I kind of need it? I owe a billion in student loans, and D.C. is crazy expensive. Maybe I can stay there for a bit? Save on rent. It’s a fiscally responsible decision, no?”
Sadie facepalms just as Hannah says combatively, “Mara, you were a grad student until ten minutes ago. You’re barely above the poverty line. Do not let him kick you out of that house.”
“Maybe he won’t even mind! I’m actually very surprised he lives there. Don’t get me wrong, the house is nice, but . . .” I trail off, thinking about the pictures I’ve seen, the hours spent on Google Street View scrolling and rescrolling through the frames, trying to get a grip on the fact that Helena cared about me enough to leave me a house. It’s a beautiful property, certainly. But more of a family residence. Not what I’d expect from an ace lawyer who probably earns a European country’s annual GDP per billable hour. “Don’t high-powered attorneys live in luxury fifty-ninth-floor penthouses with golden bidets and brandy cellars and statues of themselves? For all I know he barely spends time in the house. So I’m just going to be honest with him. Explain my situation. I’m sure we can find some kind of solution that—”
“Here we are,” the driver tells me with a smile. I return it, a tad weakly.
“If you don’t text us within half an hour,” Hannah says in a dead-serious tone, “I’m going to assume that Big Oil Liam is holding you captive in his basement and call law enforcement.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that. Remember that kickboxing class I took in our third year? And that time at the strawberry festival, when I kicked the butt of the guy who tried to steal your pie?”
“He was an eight-year-old boy, Mara. And you did not kick his butt—you gave him your own pie and a kiss on the forehead. Text in thirty, or I’m calling the cops.”
I glare at her. “Assuming a polar bear hasn’t mugged you in the meantime.”
“Sadie’s in New York, and she has the D.C. police on speed dial.”
“Yup.” Sadie nods. “Setting it up right now.”