Chapter 12: The Will

Heinz Hall held twenty-seven hundred seats, and on Saturday night four hundred of them were filled with people who worked for me.

The gold curtain glowed behind the lectern, and above it hung a banner that said SIXTY YEARS OF OLMSTEAD FREIGHT.

I stood in the wings in a dark green dress my mother would have loved.

The envelope from the tower was folded in my beaded clutch.

I had opened it in the car.

Inside was a photocopy of one page of my father's will, with a single paragraph underlined in red, and a note in looping ink.

"Read it yourself, or I will."

I had decided to read it myself.

I had my first sentence, and I had my second.

"Chair," Fran whispered. "You're on."

I walked out to a standing ovation.

It went on long enough that I had to look at my shoes.

In the third row, on the aisle, sat Colin in a rented tuxedo, with his hands clasped between his knees.

Across from him, at the front table, Roan leaned back in his chair with his arms folded and gave me a small nod.

At the far end of the same table, in a white gown, sat Peyton Ferris.

Somebody had given her a ticket.

I knew exactly who, and I would deal with her later.

"Good evening," I said into the microphone. "Thank you for coming."

The applause faded, and the hall settled.

"My grandfather started Olmstead Freight with two borrowed trucks."

"My father ran it for thirty years. I took the chair at twenty-seven, and you have never seen my face."

A ripple of laughter, warm and a little nervous.

"I owe you an apology for that. I'd like to start with one other."

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