Watching a Glass Shatter

Prologue

Six Years Ago

Ben uncrossed his wiry legs and hunched forward, a pair of wobbly knees within inches of knocking the mahogany desk separating him and the estate attorney with whom he planned to reveal an intrusive secret. A well-tailored dark suit pulled across his broad shoulders, revealing a slim and narrow waist struggling to contain his plaguing nausea.

"Do you have any specific instructions on how I should handle the matter?" Ira Rattenbury's mellow voice echoed off the thin, panel-covered walls in his discrete Connecticut office hidden in the corner of the downtown historic square.

"I hoped you might have a solution. This was a difficult decision," said Ben, lifting his head from a determined stare at the envelopes he'd dropped on the desk. He removed and cleaned a pair of small wire-framed spectacles and replaced them on his pale and furrowed face, shuddering at the reflection of graying hair at his temples. With thoughts of the meeting ravaging his body, he was uncertain how to broach a troublesome topic.

"Altering a last will and testament shreds any long-assembled confidence. Do the envelopes contain a change to the estate's division among your heirs?" Ira's lips formed a thin smile, as he shuffled through the paperwork strewn across his desk.

"No." Ben's slender, bony hands pressed atop the leather organizer, tapping an unknown rhythm incapable of soothing the erratic hesitation in his voice.

Ira's thirtyish face crinkled. "Did you acquire new assets we need to account for?"

"Nothing since we spoke last year." Ben inhaled the scent of the sandalwood candle Ira's secretary lit outside the frosted, glass office door, its pungent burn beckoning the distractions he refused to welcome.

Ira searched Ben's deep-set green eyes to unearth what lurked behind his fragile composure. "I want to do anything I can to help. Maybe you should tell me to whom the envelopes belong. It appears to resemble a fine and delicate parchment, early twentieth century. I'm assuming the contents are of significance."

"Yes, the stationery was a gift from my wife years ago. I apologize. I do not mean to be unclear. Regret terrorizes even the strongest of men..." Ben flinched while peering out the window at a mother pushing a baby carriage along the main street, unsettled by the grinding whirr of traffic passing by her a few feet away. He knew it was time to confess his sin, especially since watching so many people ripped from existence around him. His oldest friend died of a heart attack on the golf course, mid-swing in front of him, as they finished under par on the last hole. The image of the five-iron and golf ball gliding through the air, both landing several feet away on the dewy grass, as his friend fell to the ground, still haunted Ben. And his older sister had succumbed to her year-long struggle with invasive lung cancer. Her every thought, touch and look grew unrecognizable in the end, prompting Ben to cultivate fear of his own mortality. Someone, other than him, needed to know what he had done.

Ira pushed back his leather seat a few feet, stood and adjusted the pocket on his linen coat. He watched Ben wince upon hearing the chair's heavy legs scrape across the wooden floor and the ensuing vibration of the few dozen coins resting in the porcelain bowl on his desk. "I understand your difficulty. If this contains material of a sensitive nature, I assure you, I will personally handle the matter so no one else in my office knows of our conversation."

"Yes, I insist only you administer my estate go-forward." Ben's long fingers waded into the bowl, the cool, rough metallic surfaces aiding his desperate need for comfort. "I have watched you over the last few years build your practice and become a valued and trustworthy advisor. You have a promising future ahead of you, Mr. Rattenbury."

Ira nodded. "I value our relationship, Ben, if I may. After all these years, we should dispense with the formalities." He handed Ben a glass of aged brandy from the thick crystal decanter sitting on his marble sideboard. The intoxicating smell lingered on his presence before descending upon the rest of the tiny office.

Ben accepted the tumbler with tense, whitened knuckles on both hands, and swallowed a healthy pour. The warm liquor soothed him as he pushed the chair further back and relaxed into its seat, stretching his feet. "Yes, please call me Ben."

"I remember the first day we met three years ago, Ben. I'd read an article in a law journal how your firm set the gold standard for winning high-profile divorce settlements and complex custody battles. I've always wondered why you selected me when I barely had five years' experience under my belt. And certainly not with clients of your stature."

Ben stood and walked toward the arched window, focused on the narrow floor-to-ceiling-corner bookshelf. He traced his fingers across the crackled spines of the law books, and his taut body creaked from the unexpected pressure as he rested against their splintered ledge. "When we first met, you may have only assembled a minimal client portfolio, but you had developed a name for yourself among peers of mine. And I knew the day would come when I needed an ally I could trust, someone removed from my family who would not... hold an obligation to... reveal my indiscretion to them." As he paused between thoughts, Ben listened to the wind's hollow interruption whipping through the covered porch outside the glass panes.

Ira nodded, swallowed the remains of his drink and sat in his chair. "I'm glad to finally know why you chose me. Tell me what's troubling you, Ben."

"My father passed away this year, as did Olivia's mother last month. I've inherited responsibility for this family as its new head. Confidence must accompany my next steps when I place these envelopes in your care. Since all my children have become adults, I need to face the consequences of a decision brokered many years ago. Perhaps in the future, I will want to tell them myself, but for now my family will better handle the news if I am already dead and buried." Or maybe I lack the fortitude to accept their looks of devastation once learning what I have done.

Ira noted the prominent shaking of Ben's voice, absent during any of their prior conversations, and offered suggestions only when Ben couldn't summon the words to continue. Though Ira drew no closer to understanding the issue at hand, not ever being given a chance to read the contents of the letters, Ben's dogging remorse and pain danced through visible tremors as he reached for the chair to steady himself with each word.

By the end of their conversation, Ben felt confident he'd chosen the right man to administer his final wishes. "Ira, I appreciate your discretion in this matter. But in addition to delivering these envelopes upon my death, I have one more task which requires assistance."

"Certainly."

Ben removed from his coat pocket a piece of paper containing a name, and thrust it towards Ira, his hand still quaking.

"Who is Rowena Hector?" Ira studied the translucent parchment, his dutiful concern pleaded with Ben to elicit a deeper explanation.

Ben turned away from Ira, unwilling to let him see the salty drops materialize in his eyes. "You must learn everything you can concerning Rowena upon my death, and not beforehand. I expect Olivia will ask for guidance based upon what I revealed in the letters. Please convey this decision tortured me for years... and I struggled with choosing the coward's way out."