AUSTIN REALLY needed a dishwasher. So he told himself, cursing, as he scoured his kitchenette for any clean vessel he could put in the microwave. None presented itself. This was a problem. After ten hours in the garage putting on winter tires and sweet-talking a very temperamental BMW, Austin was starving—hangry even. He should probably buy another bowl. More cutlery too, while he was at it. He didn’t have time to clean the caked-on macaroni out of the ones he’d left in the sink. He might die first. Could you put SpaghettiOs in the microwave just in the can? Metal wasn’t a problem anymore, right? Or did that depend on the microwave? Austin couldn’t remember and didn’t want to find out the hard way. Was it safe to eat this shit cold? He was debating the merits of rolling the dice on that when his cell rang. Austin was off the clock, technically. He only had one phone and didn’t use it for personal reasons. But he also hadn’t been a small-business owner long enough to just ignore calls. And the call ID was from a lawyer’s office. Lawyers had fancy cars, and that meant fancy repairs. “Taylor’s Repairs, go for Austin.” “Hello,” came the polite, professional voice on the other end of the line. Not a service call, then. “This is Josephine Kelly from Keller and Associates. Am I correct in assuming that I’ve reached Austin Taylor?” Oh fuck, he wasn’t getting sued or something, was he? “Uh, yeah. That’s me.” “Mr. Taylor, are you acquainted with a Diedre Mitchell?” The dull ache that had lived in Austin’s chest for six months gave a sharp throb. “DeeDee, yeah. Out on County Road 8?” Austin didn’t have a lot of friends. Actually, now that DeeDee was gone, Austin didn’t have any friends. If it were left up to him, he wouldn’t have had her either, but little old ladies who lived on their own in ramshackle farmhouses knew how to get their way. He was called out to fix her riding lawn mower over a year ago, and somehow he’d gone back to fix something or other once a week after that. DeeDee always insisted he stay for lunch. In the spring, they ate on her side patio, soaking up the weak sunshine; in the summer, they took refuge in the shade of her crumbling front porch. He’d never actually been inside. Then she died, and now he never would. “Yes, that’s correct. I’m pleased we’ve reached the correct Austin Taylor.” Were there a lot of them? Austin wondered. “Can I ask what this is regarding?” There was a click of a pen or a keyboard on the other end of the line. “One of our clients, Chris Mitchell, has been named executor of Ms. Mitchell’s estate.” Pause. “Most of it was divided up between her relatives, but there is the matter of the house.” Austin blinked, feeling hollow. “The house?” Josephine made an affirmative-sounding hum. “Ms. Mitchell has listed you as a co-beneficiary of that particular asset.” More tapping—definitely keys this time. “We’ve been trying to track you down so the ownership transfer can be finalized. Would you be available tomorrow to go over some paperwork?” “Uh.” DeeDee Mitchell left him a house? Why? She had family. Case in point, this Chris guy. “Mr. Taylor?” Right. Availability. Paperwork. Austin forced himself to close his mouth and consider his schedule. He only had two appointments tomorrow, both protective sprays for the upcoming road-salt season. Tomorrow was a Wednesday, so a slow day for walk-in business. “I could do sometime after two?” Click-clack-click. “Perfect. We’ll see you tomorrow at two thirty, Mr. Taylor.” In a daze, Austin took down the address of the office. Then he and Josephine Kelly hung up, and he set his phone down on the counter. He stared at it for a handful of seconds, waiting for her to call back and tell him this had all been a weird misunderstanding. The phone remained stubbornly silent. Austin took a deep breath and considered the yet-unopened can of SpaghettiOs.