Chapter 6: The Brother in the Doorway
Marcus arrived the next morning.
He didn't call ahead.
He walked through the maternity ward like he owned the corridor, a paper bag of pastries in one hand and his phone in the other, and he pushed open the door to my room with his shoulder.
"There they are." He grinned at the bassinets.
"Three of them.
Unbelievable."
Nathan was sitting in the chair by the window.
He didn't stand up.
Marcus set the pastries on the tray table and leaned over the bassinets one by one, making the soft sounds people make around newborns.
Then he straightened and looked at his brother.
"You look terrible," he said.
"Did you sleep at all?"
"No," Nathan said.
"That's going to be your life for the next two years." Marcus pulled up a chair.
"Trust me, it gets—"
"I spoke to Daniel Holt last night."
Marcus stopped pulling the chair.
The grin didn't disappear all at once.
It faded the way light fades when a cloud moves — gradual, then suddenly gone.
"Who?" he said.
"Don't." Nathan's voice was flat.
"Mom told me about Robert.
About the trust.
About the missing heir.
And Daniel texted me from a number you gave him six weeks ago." He paused.
"So don't say who."
Marcus straightened up slowly.
He looked at me.
I said nothing.
"It's not what it sounds like," Marcus said.
"Then explain what it is."
Marcus sat down.
He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, the way he always did when he was about to reframe something.
"Dad left a mess," he said.
"You know that.
The estate was complicated.
There were old documents, old claims, things that were never properly resolved.
I was trying to clean it up."
"By sending people to Daniel's apartment to pressure him into signing documents he hadn't agreed to?"
"I sent a law firm—"
"You sent people who wouldn't leave copies of the documents and told a man with a young daughter that he couldn't afford to be difficult." Nathan leaned forward too.
"That's not cleaning up a mess.
That's making one."
Marcus's jaw shifted.
"Daniel Holt has no idea what he's sitting on.
He doesn't understand the legal complexity.
He doesn't want the money — he told me that himself—"
"He told me the same thing.
He also told me your people came back after he'd already signed what you asked him to sign.
New papers.
Different terms." Nathan's voice stayed level.
"What changed between the first signing and the second?"
Marcus looked at the window.
"The first document had a flaw," he said.
"A drafting error.
It wouldn't have held up."
"What kind of flaw?"
"A technical one."
"Marcus."
"The witnessing was improper." Marcus stood up and moved toward the window.
"It needed to be redone.
That's all."
"And the part where your representative told him he couldn't afford to be difficult?"
"That was overzealous.
I'll speak to them about it."
"You'll speak to them." Nathan stood up too.
"A man who works two jobs and raises a daughter alone was threatened on your behalf, and you'll speak to someone about it."
"It wasn't a threat—"
"Nathan." I said his name quietly.
Both of them looked at me.
I had been holding our third daughter since Marcus walked in.
I looked at Marcus directly.
"Does Daniel's original signed document still exist?" I asked.
"The first one."
Something moved behind Marcus's eyes.
Quick.
Gone.
"It was voided," he said.
"That's not what I asked.
Does it still exist physically?"
Marcus said nothing.
"Because if it does," I said, "and if it was signed willingly and the only flaw was a technical witnessing error, then a court could look at it as evidence of intent.
Daniel's intent to cooperate.
Freely.
Without pressure."
Marcus looked at me for a long moment.
"You're not a lawyer," he said.
"No," I said.
"But I know someone who is.
And so does Daniel, as of last night."
The color shifted in Marcus's face.
"You contacted a lawyer for him?"
"We pointed him toward one," Nathan said.
"He deserves proper representation."
Marcus turned back to the window.
His shoulders had changed shape.
"This is going to get complicated," he said quietly.
"It already is," Nathan said.
"You made it complicated."
Marcus didn't answer.
He stood at the window looking out at the hospital car park, and I watched the back of his neck and thought about the text from Daniel — *tell him to stop* — and about a four-year-old girl whose father had been told he couldn't afford to be difficult.
"I want to meet him," Nathan said.
Marcus turned around.
"What?"
"Daniel.
I want to meet him.
In person.
No lawyers, no documents.
Just a conversation."
"Nathan, that's not—"
"I'm not asking your permission."
Marcus looked at him for a long time.
Then he reached into his jacket pocket and took out his phone.
He found something, turned the screen toward Nathan.
An address.
A neighborhood on the east side of the city.
"He works mornings," Marcus said.
"He's usually home by two."
Nathan took a photo of the screen.
Marcus pocketed his phone.
He looked at the bassinets one more time.
Then he picked up his paper bag of pastries from the tray table.
He walked to the door and stopped with his hand on the frame.
"The trust is worth more than you think," he said, without turning around.
"Before you decide to play the good brother, make sure you know what you're giving away."
He left.
Nathan looked at me.
"He just told us it's worth enough to worry about," I said.
May you like
"Yes," Nathan said.
"He did."
