This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents arethe product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Anyresemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, iscoincidental.Copyright © 2020 by Jennifer Lynn BarnesCover art copyright © 2020 by Katt Phatt. Cover design by Karina Granda.Cover copyright © 2020 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.Hachette Book Group supports the right to free expression and the value ofcopyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists toproduce the creative works that enrich our culture.The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permissionis a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permissionto use material from the book (other than for review purposes), pleasecontact permissions@hbgusa.com. Thank you for your support of theauthor’s rights.Little, Brown and CompanyHachette Book Group1290 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10104Visit us at LBYR.comFirst Edition: September 2020Little, Brown and Company is a division of Hachette Book Group, Inc. TheLittle, Brown name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are notowned by the publisher.Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication DataNames: Barnes, Jennifer (Jennifer Lynn), author.Title: The inheritance games / Jennifer Lynn Barnes. Description: First edition. | New York: Little, Brown and Company, 2020. |Audience: Ages 12+ | Summary: “When a teen inherits vast wealth andan eccentric estate from the richest man in Texas, she must also live withhis surviving family—a family hellbent on discovering just how sheearned her inheritance”—Provided by publisher.Identifiers: LCCN 2019054648 | ISBN 9781368052405 (hardcover) | ISBN9781368053242 (ebook) Subjects: CYAC: Inheritance and succession—Fiction. | Wealth—Fiction. | Puzzles—Fiction.Classification: LCC PZ7.B26225 In 2020 | DDC [Fic]—dc23LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019054648ISBNs: 978-1-368-05240-5 (hardcover), 978-1-368-05324-2 (ebook)E3-20200801-JV-NF-ORI ContentsCoverTitle PageCopyrightDedicationChapter 1Chapter 2Chapter 3Chapter 4Chapter 5Chapter 6Chapter 7Chapter 8Chapter 9Chapter 10Chapter 11Chapter 12Chapter 13Chapter 14Chapter 15Chapter 16Chapter 17 Chapter 18Chapter 19Chapter 20Chapter 21Chapter 22Chapter 23Chapter 24Chapter 25Chapter 26Chapter 27Chapter 28Chapter 29Chapter 30Chapter 31Chapter 32Chapter 33Chapter 34Chapter 35Chapter 36Chapter 37Chapter 38Chapter 39Chapter 40Chapter 41Chapter 42Chapter 43Chapter 44 Chapter 45Chapter 46Chapter 47Chapter 48Chapter 49Chapter 50Chapter 51Chapter 52Chapter 53Chapter 54Chapter 55Chapter 56Chapter 57Chapter 58Chapter 59Chapter 60Chapter 61Chapter 62Chapter 63Chapter 64Chapter 65Chapter 66Chapter 67Chapter 68Chapter 69Chapter 70Chapter 71 Chapter 72Chapter 73Chapter 74Chapter 75Chapter 76Chapter 77Chapter 78Chapter 79Chapter 80Chapter 81Chapter 82Chapter 83Chapter 84Chapter 85Chapter 86Chapter 87Chapter 88Chapter 89Chapter 90Chapter 91EpilogueAcknowledgmentsDiscover MoreAlso by Jennifer Lynn Barnes Explore book giveaways, sneak peeks, deals, and more.Tap here to learn more. CHAPTER 1When I was a kid, my mom constantly invented games. The Quiet Game.The Who Can Make Their Cookie Last Longer? Game. A perennialfavorite, The Marshmallow Game involved eating marshmallows whilewearing puffy Goodwill jackets indoors, to avoid turning on the heat. TheFlashlight Game was what we played when the electricity went out. Wenever walked anywhere—we raced. The floor was nearly always lava. Theprimary purpose of pillows was building forts.Our longest-lasting game was called I Have A Secret, because my momsaid that everyone should always have at least one. Some days she guessedmine. Some days she didn’t. We played every week, right up until I wasfifteen and one of her secrets landed her in the hospital.The next thing I knew, she was gone.“Your move, princess.” A gravelly voice dragged me back to thepresent. “I don’t have all day.”“Not a princess,” I retorted, sliding one of my knights into place. “Yourmove, old man.”Harry scowled at me. I didn’t know how old he was, really, and I had noidea how he’d come to be homeless and living in the park where we playedchess each morning. I did know that he was a formidable opponent.“You,” he grumbled, eyeing the board, “are a horrible person.”Three moves later, I had him. “Checkmate. You know what that means,Harry.”He gave me a dirty look. “I have to let you buy me breakfast.” Thosewere the terms of our long-standing bet. When I won, he couldn’t turndown the free meal.To my credit, I only gloated a little. “It’s good to be queen.” I made it to school on time but barely. I had a habit of cutting things close. Iwalked the same tightrope with my grades: How little effort could I put inand still get an A? I wasn’t lazy. I was practical. Picking up an extra shiftwas worth trading a 98 for a 92.I was in the middle of drafting an English paper in Spanish class when Iwas called to the office. Girls like me were supposed to be invisible. Wedidn’t get summoned for sit-downs with the principal. We made exactly asmuch trouble as we could afford to make, which in my case was none.“Avery.” Principal Altman’s greeting was not what one would callwarm. “Have a seat.”I sat.He folded his hands on the desk between us. “I assume you know whyyou’re here.”Unless this was about the weekly poker game I’d been running in theparking lot to finance Harry’s breakfasts—and sometimes my own—I hadno idea what I’d done to draw the administration’s attention. “Sorry,” I said,trying to sound sufficiently meek, “but I don’t.”Principal Altman let me sit with my response for a moment, thenpresented me with a stapled packet of paper. “This is the physics test youtook yesterday.”“Okay,” I said. That wasn’t the response he was looking for, but it wasall I had. For once, I’d actually studied. I couldn’t imagine I’d done badlyenough to merit intervention.“Mr. Yates graded the tests, Avery. Yours was the only perfect score.”“Great,” I said, in a deliberate effort to keep myself from saying okayagain.“Not great, young lady. Mr. Yates intentionally creates exams thatchallenge the abilities of his students. In twenty years, he’s never given aperfect score. Do you see the problem?”I couldn’t quite bite back my instinctive reply. “A teacher who designstests most of his students can’t pass?”Mr. Altman narrowed his eyes. “You’re a good student, Avery. Quitegood, given your circumstances. But you don’t exactly have a history ofsetting the curve.”That was fair, so why did I feel like he’d gut-punched me?“I am not without sympathy for your situation,” Principal Altman continued, “but I need you to be straight with me here.” He locked his eyesonto mine. “Were you aware that Mr. Yates keeps copies of all his exams onthe cloud?” He thought I’d cheated. He was sitting there, staring me down,and I’d never felt less seen. “I’d like to help you, Avery. You’ve doneextremely well, given the hand life has dealt you. I would hate to see anyplans you might have for the future derailed.”“Any plans I might have?” I repeated. If I’d had a different last name, ifI’d had a dad who was a dentist and a mom who stayed home, he wouldn’thave acted like the future was something I might have thought about. “I’m ajunior,” I gritted out. “I’ll graduate next year with at least two semesters’worth of college credit. My test scores should put me in scholarshipcontention at UConn, which has one of the top actuarial science programsin the country.”Mr. Altman frowned. “Actuarial science?”“Statistical risk assessment.” It was the closest I could come to double-majoring in poker and math. Besides, it was one of the most employablemajors on the planet.“Are you a fan of calculated risks, Ms. Grambs?”Like cheating? I couldn’t let myself get any angrier. Instead, I picturedmyself playing chess. I marked out the moves in my mind. Girls like medidn’t get to explode. “I didn’t cheat.” I said calmly. “I studied.”I’d scraped together time—in other classes, between shifts, later at nightthan I should have stayed up. Knowing that Mr. Yates was infamous forgiving impossible tests had made me want to redefine possible. For once,instead of seeing how close I could cut it, I’d wanted to see how far I couldgo.And this was what I got for my effort, because girls like me didn’t aceimpossible exams.“I’ll take the test again,” I said, trying not to sound furious, or worse,wounded. “I’ll get the same grade again.”“And what would you say if I told you that Mr. Yates had prepared anew exam? All new questions, every bit as difficult as the first.”I didn’t even hesitate. “I’ll take it.”“That can be arranged tomorrow during third period, but I have to warnyou that this will go significantly better for you if—”“Now.” Mr. Altman stared at me. “Excuse me?”Forget sounding meek. Forget being invisible. “I want to take the newexam right here, in your office, right now.” CHAPTER 2Rough day?” Libby asked. My sister was seven years older than me andway too empathetic for her own good—or mine.“I’m fine,” I replied. Recounting my trip to Altman’s office would onlyhave worried her, and until Mr. Yates graded my second test there wasnothing anyone could do. I changed the subject. “Tips were good tonight.”“How good?” Libby’s sense of style resided somewhere between punkand goth, but personality-wise, she was the kind of eternal optimist whobelieved a hundred-dollar-tip was always just around the corner at a hole-in-the-wall diner where most entrees cost $6.99.I pressed a wad of crumpled singles into her hand. “Good enough tohelp make rent.”Libby tried to hand the money back, but I moved out of reach before shecould. “I will throw this cash at you,” she warned sternly.I shrugged. “I’d dodge.”“You’re impossible.” Libby grudgingly put the money away, produced amuffin tin out of nowhere, and fixed me with a look. “You will accept thismuffin to make it up to me.”“Yes, ma’am.” I went to take it from her outstretched hand, but then Ilooked past her to the counter and realized she’d baked more than muffins.There were also cupcakes. I felt my stomach plummet. “Oh no, Lib.”“It’s not what you think,” Libby promised. She was an apology cupcakebaker. A guilty cupcake baker. A please-don’t-be-mad-at-me cupcake baker.“Not what I think?” I repeated softly. “So he’s not moving back in?”“It’s going to be different this time,” Libby promised. “And thecupcakes are chocolate!”My favorite.“It’s never going to be different,” I said, but if I’d been capable ofmaking her believe that, she’d have believed it already. Right on cue, Libby’s on-again, off-again boyfriend—who had afondness for punching walls and extolling his own virtues for not punchingLibby—strolled in. He snagged a cupcake off the counter and let his gazerake over me. “Hey, jailbait.”“Drake,” Libby said.“I’m kidding.” Drake smiled. “You know I’m kidding, Libby-mine. Youand your sister just need to learn how to take a joke.”One minute in, and he was already making us the problem. “This is nothealthy,” I told Libby. He hadn’t wanted her to take me in—and he’d neverstopped punishing her for it.“This is not your apartment,” Drake shot back.“Avery’s my sister,” Libby insisted.“Half sister,” Drake corrected, and then he smiled again. “Joking.”He wasn’t, but he also wasn’t wrong. Libby and I shared an absentfather, but had different moms. We’d only seen each other once or twice ayear growing up. No one had expected her to take custody of me two yearsearlier. She was young. She was barely scraping by. But she was Libby.Loving people was what she did.“If Drake’s staying here,” I told her quietly, “then I’m not.”Libby picked up a cupcake and cradled it in her hands. “I’m doing thebest I can, Avery.”She was a people pleaser. Drake liked putting her in the middle. He usedme to hurt her.I couldn’t just wait around for the day he stopped punching walls.“If you need me,” I told Libby, “I’ll be living in my car.” CHAPTER 3My ancient Pontiac was a piece of junk, but at least the heater worked.Mostly. I parked at the diner, around the back, where no one would see me.Libby texted, but I couldn’t bring myself to text back, so I ended up juststaring at my phone instead. The screen was cracked. My data plan waspractically nonexistent, so I couldn’t go online, but I did have unlimitedtexts.Besides Libby, there was exactly one person in my life worth texting. Ikept my message to Max short and sweet: You-know-who is back.There was no immediate response. Max’s parents were big on “phone-free” time and confiscated hers frequently. They were also infamous forintermittently monitoring her messages, which was why I hadn’t namedDrake and wouldn’t type a word about where I was spending the night.Neither the Liu family nor my social worker needed to know that I wasn’twhere I was supposed to be.Setting my phone down, I glanced at my backpack in the passenger seat,but decided that the rest of my homework could wait for morning. I laid myseat back and closed my eyes but couldn’t sleep, so I reached into the glovebox and retrieved the only thing of value that my mother had left me: astack of postcards. Dozens of them. Dozens of places we’d planned to gotogether.Hawaii. New Zealand. Machu Picchu. Staring at each of the pictures inturn, I imagined myself anywhere but here. Tokyo. Bali. Greece. I wasn’tsure how long I’d been lost in thought when my phone beeped. I picked itup and was greeted by Max’s response to my message about Drake.That mother-faxer. And then, a moment later: Are you okay?Max had moved away the summer after eighth grade. Most of ourcommunication was written, and she refused to write curse words, lest herparents see them. So she got creative.I’m fine, I wrote back, and that was all the impetus she needed tounleash her righteous fury on my behalf.THAT FAXING CHIPHEAD CAN GO STRAIGHT TO ELF AND EAT ABAG OF DUCKS!!!A second later, my phone rang. “Are you really okay?” Max asked whenI answered.I looked back down at the postcards in my lap, and the muscles in mythroat tightened. I would make it through high school. I’d apply for everyscholarship I qualified for. I’d get a marketable degree that allowed me towork remotely and paid me well.I’d travel the world.I let out a long, jagged breath, and then answered Max’s question. “Youknow me, Maxine. I always land on my feet.” CHAPTER 4The next day, I paid a price for sleeping in my car. My whole body ached,and I had to shower after gym, because paper towels in the bathroom at thediner could only go so far. I didn’t have time to dry my hair, so I arrived atmy next class sopping wet. It wasn’t my best look, but I’d gone to schoolwith the same kids my whole life. I was wallpaper.No one was looking.“Romeo and Juliet is littered with proverbs—small, pithy bits of wisdomthat make a statement about the way the world and human nature work.”My English teacher was young and earnest, and I deeply suspected she’dhad too much coffee. “Let’s take a step back from Shakespeare. Who cangive me an example of an everyday proverb?”Beggars can’t be choosers, I thought, my head pounding and waterdroplets dripping down my back. Necessity is the mother of invention. Ifwishes were horses, beggars would ride.The door to the classroom opened. An office aide waited for the teacherto look at her, then announced loudly enough for the whole class to hear,“Avery Grambs is wanted in the office.”I took that to mean that someone had graded my test.I knew better than to expect an apology, but I also wasn’t expecting Mr.Altman to meet me at his secretary’s desk, beaming like he’d just had a visitfrom the Pope. “Avery!”An alarm went off in the back of my head, because no one was ever thatglad to see me.“Right this way.” He opened the door to his office, and I caught sight ofa familiar neon-blue ponytail inside. “Libby?” I said. She was wearing skull-print scrubs and no makeup,both of which suggested she’d come straight from work. In the middle of ashift. Orderlies at assisted living facilities couldn’t just walk out in themiddle of shifts.Not unless something was wrong.“Is Dad…” I couldn’t make myself finish the question.“Your father is fine.” The voice that issued that statement didn’t belongto Libby or Principal Altman. My head whipped up, and I looked past mysister. The chair behind the principal’s desk was occupied—by a guy notmuch older than me. What is going on here?He was wearing a suit. He looked like the kind of person who shouldhave had an entourage.“As of yesterday,” he continued, his low, rich voice measured andprecise, “Ricky Grambs was alive, well, and safely passed out in a motelroom in Michigan, an hour outside of Detroit.”I tried not to stare at him—and failed. Light hair. Pale eyes. Featuressharp enough to cut rocks.“How could you possibly know that?” I demanded. I didn’t even knowwhere my deadbeat father was. How could he?The boy in the suit didn’t answer my question. Instead, he arched aneyebrow. “Principal Altman?” he said. “If you could give us a moment?”The principal opened his mouth, presumably to object to being removedfrom his own office, but the boy’s eyebrow lifted higher.“I believe we had an agreement.”Altman cleared his throat. “Of course.” And just like that, he turned andwalked out the door. It closed behind him, and I resumed openly staring atthe boy who’d banished him.“You asked how I know where you father is.” His eyes were the samecolor as his suit—gray, bordering on silver. “It would be best, for themoment, for you to just assume that I know everything.”His voice would have been pleasant to listen to if it weren’t for thewords. “A guy who thinks he knows everything,” I muttered. “That’s new.”“A girl with a razor-sharp tongue,” he returned, silver eyes focused onmine, the ends of his lips ticking upward.“Who are you?” I asked. “And what do you want?” With me, somethinginside me added. What do you want with me? “All I want,” he said, “is to deliver a message.” For reasons I couldn’tquite pinpoint, my heart started beating faster. “One that has proven ratherdifficult to send via traditional means.”“That might be my fault,” Libby volunteered sheepishly beside me.“What might be your fault?” I turned to look at her, grateful for anexcuse to look away from Gray Eyes and fighting the urge to glance back.“The first thing you need to know,” Libby said, as earnestly as anyonewearing skull-print scrubs had ever said anything, “is that I had no idea theletters were real.”“What letters?” I asked. I was the only person in this room who didn’tknow what was going on here, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that notknowing was a liability, like standing on train tracks but not knowing whichdirection the train was coming from.“The letters,” the boy in the suit said, his voice wrapping around me,“that my grandfather’s attorneys have been sending, certified mail, to yourresidence for the better part of three weeks.”“I thought they were a scam,” Libby told me.“I assure you,” the boy replied silkily, “they are not.”I knew better than to put any confidence in the assurances of good-looking guys.“Let me start again.” He folded his hands on the desk between us, thethumb of his right hand lightly circling the cuff link on his left wrist. “Myname is Grayson Hawthorne. I’m here on behalf of McNamara, Ortega, andJones, a Dallas-based law firm representing my grandfather’s estate.”Grayson’s pale eyes met mine. “My grandfather passed away earlier thismonth.” A weighty pause. “His name was Tobias Hawthorne.” Graysonstudied my reaction—or, more accurately, the lack thereof. “Does that namemean anything to you?”The sensation of standing on train tracks was back. “No,” I said.“Should it?”“My grandfather was a very wealthy man, Ms. Grambs. And it appearsthat, along with our family and people who worked for him for years, youhave been named in his will.”I heard the words but couldn’t process them. “His what?”“His will,” Grayson repeated, a slight smile crossing his lips. “I don’tknow what he left you, exactly, but your presence is required at the will’s reading. We’ve been postponing it for weeks.”I was an intelligent person, but Grayson Hawthorne might as well havebeen speaking Swedish.“Why would your grandfather leave anything to me?” I asked.Grayson stood. “That’s the question of the hour, isn’t it?” He stepped outfrom behind the desk, and suddenly I knew exactly what direction the trainwas coming from.His.“I’ve taken the liberty of making travel arrangements on your behalf.”This wasn’t an invitation. It was a summons. “What makes you think—”I started to say, but Libby cut me off. “Great!” she said, giving me a healthyside-eye.Grayson smirked. “I’ll give you two a moment.” His eyes lingered onmine too long for comfort, and then, without another word, he strode outthe door.Libby and I were silent for a full five seconds after he was gone. “Don’ttake this the wrong way,” she whispered finally, “but I think he might beGod.”I snorted. “He certainly thinks so.” It was easier to ignore the effect he’dhad on me now that he was gone. What kind of person had self-assurancethat absolute? It was there in every aspect of his posture and word choice, inevery interaction. Power was as much a fact of life for this guy as gravity.The world bent to the will of Grayson Hawthorne. What money couldn’tbuy him, those eyes probably did.“Start from the beginning,” I told Libby. “And don’t leave anythingout.”She fidgeted with the inky-black tips of her blue ponytail. “A couple ofweeks ago, we started getting these letters—addressed to you, care of me.They said that you’d inherited money, gave us a number to call. I thoughtthey were a scam. Like one of those emails that claims to be from a foreignprince.”“Why would this Tobias Hawthorne—a man I’ve never met, never evenheard of—put me in his will?” I asked.“I don’t know,” Libby said, “but that”—she gestured in the directionGrayson had gone—“is not a scam. Did you see the way he dealt withPrincipal Altman? What do you think their agreement was? A bribe… or a threat?”Both. Pushing down that response, I pulled out my phone and connectedto the school’s Wi-Fi. One internet search for Tobias Hawthorne later, thetwo of us were reading a news headline: Noted Philanthropist Dies at 78.“Do you know what philanthropist means?” Libby asked me seriously.“It means rich.”“It means someone who gives to charity,” I corrected her.“So… rich.” Libby gave me a look. “What if you are charity? Theywouldn’t send this guy’s grandson to get you if he’d just left you a fewhundred dollars. We must be talking thousands. You could travel, Avery, orput it toward college, or buy a better car.”I could feel my heart starting to beat faster again. “Why would a totalstranger leave me anything?” I reiterated, resisting the urge to daydream,even for a second, because if I started, I wasn’t sure I could stop.“Maybe he knew your mom?” Libby suggested. “I don’t know, but I doknow that you need to go to the reading of that will.”“I can’t just take off,” I told her. “Neither can you.” We’d both misswork. I’d miss class. And yet… if nothing else, a trip would get Libby awayfrom Drake, at least temporarily.And if this is real… It was already getting harder not to think about thepossibilities.“My shifts are covered for the next two days,” Libby informed me. “Imade some calls, and so are yours.” She reached for my hand. “Come on,Ave. Wouldn’t it be nice to take a trip, just you and me?”She squeezed my hand. After a moment, I squeezed back. “Whereexactly is the reading of the will?”“Texas!” Libby grinned. “And they didn’t just book our tickets. Theybooked them first class.” CHAPTER 5I’d never flown before. Looking down from ten thousand feet, I couldimagine myself going farther than Texas. Paris. Bali. Machu Picchu. Thosehad always been someday dreams.But now…Beside me, Libby was in heaven, sipping on a complimentary cocktail.“Picture time,” she declared. “Smoosh in and hold up your warm nuts.”On the other side of the aisle, a lady shot Libby a disapproving look. Iwasn’t sure whether the target of her disapproval was Libby’s hair, thecamo-print jacket she’d changed into when she’d ditched her scrubs, hermetal-studded choker, the selfie she was attempting to take, or the volumewith which she’d just said the phrase warm nuts.Adopting my haughtiest look, I leaned toward my sister and raised mywarm nuts high.Libby laid her head on my shoulder and snapped the pic. She turned thephone to show me. “I’ll send it to you when we land.” The smile on herface wavered, just for a second. “Don’t put it online, okay?”Drake doesn’t know where you are, does he? I bit back the urge toremind her that she was allowed to have a life. I didn’t want to argue. “Iwon’t.” That wasn’t any big sacrifice on my part. I had social mediaaccounts, but I mostly used them to DM Max.And speaking of… I pulled my phone out. I’d put it in airplane mode,which meant no texting, but first class offered free Wi-Fi. I sent Max aquick update on what had happened, then spent the rest of the flightobsessively reading up on Tobias Hawthorne.He’d made his money in oil, then diversified. I’d expected, based on theway Grayson had said his grandfather was a “wealthy” man and thenewspaper’s use of the word philanthropist, that he was some kind ofmillionaire. I was wrong.Tobias Hawthorne wasn’t just “wealthy” or “well-off.” There weren’tany polite terms for what Tobias Hawthorne was, other than really insert-expletive-of-your-choice-here filthy rich. Billions, with a b and plural. Hewas the ninth-richest person in the United States and the richest man in thestate of Texas.Forty-six point two billion dollars. That was his net worth. As far asnumbers went, it didn’t even sound real. Eventually, I stopped wonderingwhy a man I’d never met would have left me something—and startedwondering how much.Max messaged back right before landing: Are you foxing with me,beach?I grinned. No. I am legit on a plane to Texas right now. Getting ready toland.Max’s only response was: Holy ship.A dark-haired woman in an all-white power suit met Libby and me thesecond we stepped past security. “Ms. Grambs.” She nodded to me, then toLibby, as she added on a second identical greeting. “Ms. Grambs.” Sheturned, expecting us to follow. To my chagrin, we both did. “I’m AlisaOrtega,” she said, “from McNamara, Ortega, and Jones.” Another pause,then she cast a sideways glance at me. “You are a very hard young womanto get ahold of.”I shrugged. “I live in my car.”“She doesn’t live there,” Libby said quickly. “Tell her you don’t.”“We’re so glad you could make it.” Alisa Ortega, from McNamara,Ortega, and Jones, didn’t wait for me to tell her anything. I had the sensethat my half of this conversation was perfunctory. “During your time inTexas, you’re to consider yourselves guests of the Hawthorne family. I’ll beyour liaison to the firm. Anything you need while you’re here, come tome.”Don’t lawyers bill by the hour? I thought. How much was this personalpickup costing the Hawthorne family? I didn’t even consider the option thatthis woman might not be a lawyer. She looked to be in her late twenties.