Great and Precious Things

by Rebecca Yarros

  Milton flushed, and I almost fist pumped.

  “What financial gain do you stand to receive in the event of Arthur Daniels’s death?” Milton asked, flipping through his file.

  “I don’t understand the question,” Cam stated, his posture straight and his face relaxed.

  “I mean that you’re pushing hard for a do-not-resuscitate order for a fifty-eight-year-old man. Isn’t it true that you stand to gain fifty percent of Arthur’s considerable land and financial holdings when he passes?” Milton’s insinuation sent a murmur through the crowd.

  Judge Wilson looked over her glasses at Cam.

  “I don’t stand to gain anything,” Cam stated.

  “I’m sorry, but that’s just not true. His will states that you three receive equal shares, and since Sullivan has passed on, that leaves you and Xander at fifty percent.”

  Cam blinked and looked at Simon.

  “Your Honor, it appears Mr. Sanders is working off an older copy of Mr. Daniels’s will. If I could supply both him and the court with the valid copy?” Simon offered.

  “Please do,” she responded.

  Simon handed out the wills. “As you can see, this will is dated from five years ago, making it newer and therefore valid.”

  “You prepared it!” Milton snapped. “How convenient.”

  “It’s a small town, Your Honor.” Simon didn’t spare a glance for Milton. “It was actually my first document post–law school and was accepted by Judge Bradley.”

  Judge Wilson flipped through the document. “This appears to be the valid will, Mr. Sanders.”

  “As you can see, after the death of my younger brother, my father took me out of his will. Everything goes to Xander.” Cam stared at his brother.

  Alexander was visibly shaken, his attention darting among Art, Cam, and the document in his hands.

  “He didn’t know?” I asked.

  “He didn’t,” Dad confirmed.

  Milton gathered his thoughts quickly and conferred with Xander. Then he turned back to Cam. “Can you tell me about the bunkhouse fire?”

  “Objection!” Simon snapped. “Immaterial!”

  The crowd’s mutterings exploded.

  “Order!” Judge Wilson demanded. “Keep it up, and we’ll close the courtroom.”

  “Your Honor, this goes to the heart of his character.”

  “How can something that happened almost a decade ago comment on his character?”

  “Hey, your client is the one who brought up the properties in the Historical Society. The fact that there was a third, potentially profitable property matters when looking to his future.”

  “I’ll allow it,” Judge Wilson ruled.

  “What can you tell me about the bunkhouse fire?” Milton poked the bear.

  Cam’s eyes flashed with indignation. “Our family owns what was the Rose Rowan bunkhouse. It burned down nine years ago. The summer I was nineteen.”

  “Were you responsible for this catastrophic loss of a priceless historical site?”

  “The fire was ruled accidental.” Cam’s voice hardened.

  “And there was no mention of you in that report? Because I have it right here if you’d like to read it.” Milton sifted through his file.

  Cam locked eyes with Xander.

  “Mr. Daniels?” Milton prompted.

  A look of utter betrayal passed over Cam’s features, and my heart sank.

  “Mr. Daniels.” Judge Wilson’s voice brought Cam’s focus back to Milton.

  “The report says that though the fire was ruled accidental, it was caused by my negligence.” Cam’s jaw flexed.

  “And do you agree with that report?” Milton asked.

  “Since I’m the one who admitted to it, it would be hard not to, wouldn’t you say?” Cam snapped.

  “If you could simply answer the question.” Milton tilted his head slightly.

  “I agree with it.”

  Milton declared that he had no further questions, and Simon jumped on the chance to redirect. “Camden, how many years did you serve in the United States Army?”

  “Nine.”

  “And during that time, you served in the Special Forces and managed to get your degree in engineering?”

  “I did.”

  “Would you say that you had upward potential in income and rank?”

  “I would. I’ve already had four job offers for more than six figures a year.”

  “And yet you gave that all up for an income far less than that. Why?” Simon prompted.

  “Because my father asked for my help.”

  “And for the record, could you tell the court which medals you earned during your service?”

  Cam tensed and glanced at Xander. “I have a few.”

  “Let me be specific. Is it correct that you not only have a Purple Heart but a Bronze Star for heroic actions in combat that not only saved lives but earned you a bullet in the upper arm?”

  My jaw dropped an inch. His upper arm? Both were covered in tattoos. He’d been wounded? Awarded one of the army’s highest honors?

  “My record will confirm that,” Cam said slowly, looking away.

  “But you’ve never told anyone?” Simon asked.

  “I got a scratch because I did the right thing in a firefight. That’s not something that should be bragged about. It should simply be assumed that anyone would do the right thing in that situation, not rewarded.”

  “I understand. Last question. When were you given this citation?”

  Cam’s eyes unfocused. “Two years and three months ago.”

  “Sounds like that’s a much better example of your character than an accident from a decade ago.” Simon shrugged.

  “Objection!” Milton shouted.

  “Withdrawn.”

  Cam stepped down, his eyes searching mine as he took his seat. There were apologies written in his pressed lips, and I smiled softly at him, forgiving that which needed no explanation.

  “How did he do?” I asked Dad when Cam sat down.

  “Strong finish,” he whispered, “but the fire? That made the whole thing a draw.”

  I just wasn’t sure a draw was enough to beat Xander. It was hard to compete with flawless.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Camden

  I couldn’t bring myself to look at Xander. Not during his perfect testimony of his perfect life with his perfect choices and perfectly planned future. Not when he’d just thrown the fire in my face.

  He used it against me, then testified that I was a great brother and son, just misguided about what was best for Dad. After all, I’d been gone for a decade, between that first year in college and the years in the military, so how could I really understand the level of care he needed? Being back for the last three and a half months couldn’t possibly give me a good enough perspective to judge my dad’s intentions, even though my heart was in the right place.

  I had never hated my brother. Maybe I’d been a little jealous that he was the assigned angel of the family, but I’d never wished him ill.

  Right now, I wanted to throw him through the gas station window again, especially since he brought that moment up, too. Even with the context Simon added, I came off like an asshole.

  The doc was next, who went over Dad’s Alzheimer’s diagnosis, his level of dementia, and his ability to make decisions. It was his opinion that while able to make decisions about his daily routine and care, he was unable to understand the impact of long-term decisions on more than half of his days.

  The more the doctor talked, the more agitated Dad became, shifting in his seat and shaking his head.

  “Are you sure you want your dad up there?” Simon asked me quietly.

  Of course I wasn’t sure. The further we got into the hearing, the less I was certain about anything, including
my brother’s morals.

  “The doc says he’s lucid enough today, or at least he was at this morning’s interview. It’s his life. You ask him.” If Xander was hell-bent on keeping Dad from making life decisions, then I could at least give him this choice.

  A few minutes later, Simon leaned in. “He says he wants to.”

  “Then, let him. At least he never set anything on fire.” This might be the only chance he had to say exactly what he wanted to Xander, and the witnesses would hold him socially accountable.

  Once the doc stepped down and Dad was headed up to the stand, I looked back at Willow.

  She gave me a reassuring smile—not that everything would be okay but that she would be there even if it wasn’t. I couldn’t return the expression, and hers softened in understanding.

  Being up there on the stand, having my military record brought out like that, only served to remind me that even though we knew each other on a cellular level, we hadn’t caught up on all the details of the years we’d spent apart. But we’d have time for that…at least if the envelope Julie had given me decided so.

  I wasn’t looking. Not until after this was over.

  Simon questioned Dad, and he did surprisingly well. His answers were clear and concise, and he actually came off as perfectly lucid. We couldn’t have hoped for a better day to do this.

  “Art, tell me: are you certain about wanting a do-not-resuscitate order?” Simon asked.

  “Since I had it tattooed across my chest, I’d say I’m very certain,” Dad insisted. “This isn’t your choice, Alexander.” Dad turned to stare at my brother, and my stomach clenched. “I’m not a child. I am a man who deserves the dignity of controlling what happens to his body.”

  “Objection,” Milton called out.

  “You know it’s wrong,” Dad continued, and now my stomach twisted with nausea. “I taught you better than to tie another person down and force things into their body that they don’t want. That’s what you did to me!”

  The crowd behind began to speak at the same time.

  “Objection!” Milton shouted.

  Shit. He was going off the rails.

  “No further questions,” Simon finished, then sat down next to me. “Well, if nothing else, the entire town will be talking about that for a while.”

  My muscles locked as Milton approached my father. He started easy, laying the foundation that, in every other matter besides that of his DNR, Xander was an excellent guardian in his opinion. And the DNR wasn’t a matter of malice or negligence but opinion.

  That’s where he lost Dad.

  “I do think it’s malicious to directly ignore someone’s wishes about his own body,” Dad argued.

  “I agree,” Milton said. “But are you sure they’re your wishes?”

  “I am.” Dad nodded.

  “Today, you are. But what about tomorrow? Next year? Your memory isn’t always supporting you, Art, is it?”

  Dad’s forehead puckered. “Some days it’s…faulty.”

  “Like the day you shot Camden?”

  My eyes slid shut as the muttering of the crowd washed over me.

  “I…” He shook his head. “I don’t remember much about that.” His confession was quiet.

  “It was Alexander who wrestled the gun away so you didn’t kill his little brother a few months ago. Is that true?”

  Dad looked down, his gaze darting back and forth, fighting to remember. “That’s what I’ve been told.”

  “You don’t remember that moment?”

  “Not as clearly as I’d like,” Dad admitted.

  “Okay, for the sake of establishing your memory loss, can you tell me how your son, Sullivan, died?”

  I almost came out of my skin.

  “Objection!” Simon shouted. “Immaterial. We already have his diagnosis on file.”

  “It goes to suitability of the guardian, Your Honor.” Milton looked at the judge like he was requesting a transcript from his last college, not ripping apart my father.

  “You’re on a short leash, Mr. Sanders,” Judge Wilson warned.

  “Yes, Your Honor. Art, do you remember how Sully died?”

  My hands clenched into fists beneath the table, and I savored the bite of pain from my nails, using it to ground and focus me.

  “Sully…” Dad looked away.

  I knew that look. We were about to lose him. “You have to stop this,” I whispered.

  “I can’t.” Simon sighed. “I’m so sorry. I never thought Xander would use Sully.”

  “Sullivan died in Afghanistan, right?” Milton pushed.

  “That’s right,” Dad confirmed, nodding but still focused on the floor. “Afghanistan. He was shot.”

  “In the neck, right?”

  I was going to rip Milton’s head from his fucking shoulders.

  “Right. His neck.” Dad started subtly rocking.

  “Another one of your sons was with him. Do you remember?”

  Dad slowly looked over to me, his eyes full of agonizing grief, and my throat closed. “Cam. Cam was with him.”

  “Is it true that Camden ordered Sullivan’s squad into the firefight that took his life?”

  “Yes.”

  Left. I’d chosen the man standing to my left instead of my right. One choice made in a flash of a second. It had been the flap of the butterfly’s wings that began the hurricane. And we were all still drowning.

  “That must be hard, knowing that Cam didn’t bring your Sully home safe.” Milton’s voice dripped with pity.

  Dad’s face crumpled, and I found it hard to draw a breath.

  “Objection!”

  “Isn’t it true that you blame Cam for Sullivan’s death?”

  “Leading the witness!”

  “I… Yes. He gave the order. You gave the order.” Dad looked toward me, his eyes glazing over.

  How could I argue with the truth?

  “Withdrawn.” Milton immediately put out his hand to Simon, like he was the one who needed to calm down. “Art, can you tell me what you had for breakfast this morning?”

  “What?”

  My heart fell to the floor.

  “Breakfast? Or dinner last night? Or maybe what you watched on TV? Can you tell me any of that?” Milton asked softly, like he actually cared.

  “I’m… Eggs?” he guessed.

  “It was French toast, according to your home nursing staff. Can you tell me the date?”

  Dad swayed. “It’s June. I know it’s June.”

  “June what? Fifteenth? Seventh? Twenty-eighth?”

  “It’s June!” Dad shouted.

  My eyes pricked, and I blinked back the moisture that welled, watching my father dissolve.

  “But what day in June?”

  “I don’t know!”

  “I understand, Art. Can you tell me the names of your home-nursing staff?” Milton didn’t even give Dad a chance to recover.

  “There are a few,” Dad replied, looking so lost that my instincts screamed to get him down from the stand.

  “But who are they?”

  “I don’t…I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know the people who are currently responsible for your around-the-clock care?” Milton questioned.

  “No! I don’t! They’re people in my house. They’re always there. They never leave me alone anymore!” His voice broke and took my spirit with it.

  “That’s okay, Art. Let’s try one last thing. Camden says that he was brought home by a voicemail you left. Do you remember that?”

  Dad’s eyes brightened. “Yes. I remember the voicemail. I asked him to come home and help me. Xander wouldn’t let me have a DNR.”

  “That’s right. Do you know when you left the voicemail?”

  Shit. I felt the blood drain from my face.
r />   “I…” Dad looked at me helplessly.

  I wanted the last twenty minutes back. I wanted to tell Simon, No, don’t put him on the stand. Not because he didn’t deserve to say his piece but because he didn’t deserve what Milton was doing to him right now.

  “Look at me, Mr. Daniels,” Milton ordered softly, like he was talking to a child and not a grown-ass man who had raised three sons and buried one of them, plus his wife and brother. “Do you remember when you left the message?”

  “It was this year. I know that.” Dad nodded. “I know it. I know it. This year. This year. I know it.”

  “Mr. Daniels, do you remember leaving that message at all?”

  “This year. Had to be.”

  “Mr. Daniels?”

  “Objection. Your Honor, this is…” Simon just shook his head. Cruel. It was cruel.

  “This is your last question, Mr. Sanders. We’re not here to torture those who need our protection,” Judge Wilson warned.

  “Yes, Your Honor. Art?”

  “What?” Dad whispered.

  “Do you remember leaving Cam that voicemail?”

  “No.”

  “So everything we’ve done here, from Cam giving up his career to this very hearing, was all started over something you can’t even remember?”

  “Mr. Sanders, that’s enough,” Judge Wilson ordered.

  “I’m finished,” Milton promised and took his seat.

  Dad’s gaze darted around the room to the ceiling and the floor, never settling on any one person or thing.

  “Your Honor, may I help my dad down?” I asked, knowing it wasn’t my place to speak and risking it anyway.

  “Yes, Mr. Daniels,” she agreed, her voice softer than before.

  The court was silent until my chair shrieked across the polished floor as I pushed back from the table. I approached Dad with shaky knees, my eyes filling with tears I couldn’t shed. Not here. Not like this.