Novels by Melodies

Sera’s povMarcus calls before I've even made coffee, which means he either didn't sleep or he's been sitting on the call since dawn waiting for a decent hour to make it look casual. Knowing Marcus, it's the second one.“I won't keep you,” he says, which is what he always says right before he keeps me for twenty minutes. “I just wanted to check on you. This week has been a lot, and I know your grandfather would want someone looking out for you.”“That's kind,” I say, and I mean it, mostly, even though something about the phrasing snags. Someone looking out for me. Not I want to look out for you. Like he's citing an obligation instead of stating a want.Marcus has been in my life since I was twelve — my grandfather's business partner, then his closest friend, then something that never quite had a name but sat at every holiday table like family anyway. He's elegant in a way that photographs well and unsettles you slightly in person, all careful tailoring and the kind of warmth that seem

Theo’s povI hear about the will before I hear about the funeral, which tells you everything about how fast money moves compared to grief. By the time I clock in Tuesday morning, half the yard already knows Edmund left the company to the granddaughter, and the other half is placing bets on how long she lasts before the board eats her alive.I don't take a side out loud. I never do. Six years on this dock and I've made a habit of being the guy nobody has an opinion about — shows up early, keeps his head down, knows the manifests better than half the office staff and never mentions it. Easiest way to stay invisible is to be useful in ways nobody bothers to ask questions about.But I know the will. Better than anyone here knows the will, probably better than the granddaughter does right now, and that's the part I'm not saying out loud either.• • •She shows up at the yard just after ten, in a coat too nice for the weather, walking the docks like she's cataloguing a house she's about t

Kai’s povI'm still at the warehouse when Sera texts me. Come over? Nothing else. She doesn't need to explain — I've been saying yes to her since we were fourteen, since she showed up at my mom's door soaked because she didn't want to go home to an empty house.I lock up and drive over with the radio off. Bad idea. Gives me too much room to think.Her grandfather's dead. Edmund Calloway gave me my first job at sixteen — sweeping the dry dock for cash because my mom needed it and was too proud to ask anyone for help. Taught me how to read a bill of lading before I could drive. Called me son sometimes, in that gruff way older guys do when the word costs them something. I haven't really let myself grieve for him yet. Tonight isn't about that. Tonight's about her.• • •She opens the door before I even knock, which means she was watching for headlights, which means today was bad.“They're already circling,” she says, pulling me in by the sleeve. “Damian Voss texted me two hours after th

Damien’s povI've read the will three times before Sera Calloway even answers my text, which tells you something about the state of Okafor's office — either the man has the world's leakiest paralegal, or he wanted this clause to reach the right ears fast. I have a guess which. Edmund Calloway spent thirty years making sure the right information found the right people at the right moment. I doubt death changed his methods much.I read it a fourth time anyway, at my desk, with the city going dark orange outside my window and my father's old shipping charts still bolted to the wall behind me because I've never gotten around to taking them down. Thirty days. One marriage. One year, uninterrupted, or the whole empire slides sideways into the cousin's lap.It's the kind of clause a sentimental old man writes when he's dying and wants a story out of his granddaughter's life instead of a balance sheet. It's also, if I'm being honest with myself, the kind of gift I have not been handed in a ve

Sera’s povThe lawyer's office smells like lemon polish and old paper. I keep thinking that's a strange thing to notice at a moment like this, except grief does that to you. It shrinks the whole world down to small, stupid details. The scratch of the pen in Mr. Okafor's hand. The clock that's four minutes fast. A plate of shortbread cookies, untouched, like anyone in this room is hungry.I am not hungry. I'm sitting very still in a chair that's too big for me, in a black dress I bought two days ago because I didn't own anything appropriate for burying my grandfather, and I'm trying very hard not to look at my cousin.I fail. I look at Vera anyway.She's sitting across the table with her legs crossed at the ankle and her spine perfectly straight, the way our grandmother used to make us sit as kids — back straight, chin up, you're a Calloway. I hated that instruction. Vera loved it. She's got her phone face-down on the table like she's trying to seem respectful, but I know her. I've kno