Cursed Legacy: The Windhaven Witches Series Carissa Andrews (read along books txt) 📖

“Ah, you must be Ms. Blackwood,” the man says. “Henry Peterson. I’m with Harper, Lance, and Scott.”

“Hi, Mr. Peterson. Yes, I’m Autumn. It’s nice to meet you,” I say, taking a seat on the couch opposite him.

On the coffee table between us is a small stack of paperwork and a small wooden box.

Mr. Peterson also takes a seat, resting his hands on his knees. “Will Mrs. Blackwood also be joining us?”

I scratch my temple, trying hard not to make a face. “She really wanted to be here, but she wasn’t able to get away from work.”

Mr. Peterson’s face darkens. “I see.”

An awkward silence stretches between us and I lean forward, clearing my throat.

“She was pretty adamant that if anything pertained to her, you’d be able to find out where to reach her,” I say, trying to gloss over the transgression.

His face tightens as his gaze drops to the stack of paperwork. “There is, indeed, much in here that pertains to her. However, we shall start with what your father has willed over to you, if that’s all right.”

I inhale sharply, nodding. “Sure.”

“Okay, I have a water for you, Mr. Peterson. A chamomile tea for you, Dru,” Wade says, handing us both our drinks.

Mr. Peterson opens his mouth, appearing at first to offer his gratitude, but pulls up short. “Did you say, Dru?” His jaw hardens as he looks between us with a sense of suspicion.

Wade, on the other hand, laughs it off. “It’s just a pet name for Autumn.”

The startled gaze doesn’t diminish on Mr. Peterson’s face. “Before we get started, I think it might be best to see some form of ID.”

“What? Really? She looks like the female version of her dad—” Wade sputters.

I reach out, placing a hand on Wade’s forearm. I try to quell his annoyance with a significant glance. “Would you mind running to the bedroom and grabbing my purse?”

He sets down a third mug, presumably his own, on the coffee table. “Sure.”

Without another word, Wade walks out, shaking his head and mumbling under his breath. I’m pretty sure I heard the word ridiculous in the middle of the tirade.

“Sorry about that. We’ll take care of any confusion,” I say, sitting up straighter.

“Indeed,” Mr. Peterson says, pursing his lips.

Rather than speak, the two of us sit in ghastly, uncomfortable silence, listening to the sound of the large clock on the wall tick the seconds away.

“And just who is this?” Abigail says, appearing to my right.

I let out a squeal of surprise, and try to stifle it with my fingertips.

“Are you all right, dear?” Mr. Peterson says, looking around the room with wide eyes.

I pat at my chest and nod. “Sorry, yes. I just thought I…” I shake my head, realizing I have absolutely no alibi for something as odd as that.

“Yes?” he presses, leaning in.

“I thought I saw an animal run past the window just now,” I say. It’s not a great lie, but it’s enough to make Mr. Peterson turn around and look out the window behind him.

I shoot Abigail a look of consternation. She shrugs, wandering over to the fireplace and lingering beside it.

“Well, I don’t see anything now,” he says, turning back around to face me.

“Here you go, my lady,” Wade says, his voice somewhat deadpan as he hands the purse over.

I chuckle under my breath at his attitude. As much as he loves to be of service to others, he likes to do it on his own terms.

“Thanks, Wade,” I say, reaching inside and digging out my driver’s license.

When I find it, I pass it over to the executor, who eyes it more closely than someone who thinks I shouldn’t be buying beer. After a moment, he passes it back to me, satisfied I am who I say I am.

“Well, let’s get started, shall we?” he mutters, picking up the papers and placing them in his lap.

Wade takes a seat on the couch beside me, eyeing Mr. Peterson with as much suspicion as he was just doling out to us.

“Oh, the manly energy fills the air. It appears things have not changed all that much in the face of men,” Abigail chuckles.

I smile, dropping my gaze to my lap.

“So, to start with, I would like to extend my deepest condolences, Ms. Blackwood, for the tragic loss of your father,” Mr. Peterson says in what I can only imagine is his ordinary pomp-and-circumstance tone.

“Thank you,” I mutter, biting down on the side of my lip.

“I have the final will and testament, produced and notarized by your father. It was graciously handled not terribly long ago, so I feel very confident in its findings,” he continues, passing me a copy of the will. “Now, rather than bore you with the details, I’ll just skip ahead to the parts that pertain to you, if that’s quite all right?”

I look over my shoulder at Wade, who just shrugs. My guess is he’s just as happy to have this uncomfortable exchange done and over with as I am.

“Okay, that sounds fair,” I say, turning back to him and nodding.

“Excellent. You will, of course, have all of the details in the documents there, should you want to know about any other aspects,” he says, dropping the paperwork and picking up the small wooden box. With a twitch of his lips, he stands up and passes it over to me.

Confused, I take the box from him. The outer shell is decorated in elaborate carvings. However, there are no hinges, no locks. In fact, nothing to indicate it opens. Just a…box.

“What is this?” I ask, lifting my gaze to Mr. Peterson.

“I wish I knew,” Mr. Peterson says. “I must say, it’s had the rest of us at the law firm very curious when I retrieved it from the safe deposit box for you.”

I rotate it in my hands, looking for something, anything, that stands out on it that might explain why my dad