Page 104 of The Wild Beneath

“They suspect a heart attack. By the time EMS arrived, it was too late to do anything.”

“Oh.” Evan looks for something to say. Something to ask. His windpipe is busy collapsing.

“I’m very sorry for your loss.” Gibbons pauses for only a second before he drills ahead. “You’re the sole beneficiary of Hale Timber, Mr. Hale. I’ll need you to come into the office to square everything away. There are licence transfer forms. Deeds for the land you own outright.”

Evan finds himself nodding. “Right.”

He has tried to think of Hale Timber as little as possible. He had never come to terms with his dad, or those decimated trees. Or how his mother would have felt about them.

And Isaac had never even apologized for sending them out in that storm.

“It’s a bit of a rigamarole, I’m sure you understand,” Gibbons says. “And I know this must be coming as a horrible shock. But there are a lot of people in Hale’s affected by this.”

“Nearly everyone must be,” Evan says. He wraps his hands around the edge of his chair and squeezes as hard as he can. “I’m sure it’s everyone.”

“I’m sorry to put all these logistics on your plate.” Gibbons straightens his tie. “But you should be aware the will stipulates Hale Timber must be run by you alone. Otherwise, it will be liquidated by our firm.”

Gibbons’s words are far away. Suddenly, it’s the dead of night and Evan is inhaling seawater under the waves, gasping, his heart jackhammering.

“Are you alright, Mr. Hale?”

Evan wipes sweat from his forehead. “Yes. Fine.”

The flashbacks have faded over the years, but they’re never completely gone. When he relives that night, he tells himself: Without that storm, he wouldn’t have woken up to the fact thathe had to leave. He’d still be working for Isaac, cutting down grandmother trees, transporting logs, taking money for it. Annie might not be his, might not be safe. These are the things he repeats over and over.

“It took me over a week to locate you,” Gibbons says.

“We hadn’t been in touch... my dad and I.” He clears his throat.

“I’m sorry. You can call to set up a convenient time to take care of things. I would have called you, but the company didn’t have a number. Do you have one I can jot down?”

As Evan recites his phone number, Gibbons writes it on the yellow legal pad inside his leather folio. “There are a few people at your company trying to get a hold of you.”

The wordsyour companybottom out in Evan’s brain.

Gibbons shakes his hand again. With a brief nod, he’s out the door.

Evan spends the next hour at the kitchen table with his head in his hands.

Annie arrives home at 5:04 p.m., just after a food delivery person has deposited a stapled paper bag in Evan’s arms.

“Right on time,” he says. He makes his voice sound as normal as possible. “How’d you manage that?”

Annie shrugs off her jacket. “It wasn’t too busy.”

Evan raises his eyebrows.

She kicks off her shoes. “The stars aligned.”

“No scrubs?”

“I showered at work.”

He tears open the bag. He should tell her right now—­tell her everything about his dad and Gibbons and even Walker—­but the words ball up in his throat.

“Did you succeed?” She picks up the wrench on the counter­top.

He had succeeded at pulling himself together this afternooneventually, re-collecting the scattered pieces. He put on a clean T-shirt and scrubbed the grease off his hands. He remembered to breathe. He hasn’t cried.