The Forgotten One (The Heirs #2)

Chapter Nine

Max took his bike to work the following Monday.

Insomnia was getting the best of him ever since the Stones had entered his life. While he wasn’t one that slept more than five hours a night, six if he was really tired, three and four had become the norm. And never did those hours roll on without him waking up somewhere in the middle.

His mind was a constant ping-pong between the family that dropped out of the sky, the inheritance that he apparently was getting ... and now Sarah. The feisty reporter that acted three feet taller than she actually was.

The look on her face when she turned around and saw him standing at the bar was worth all the cloak-and-dagger he’d put in after leaving her on the side of the road.

While waiting for her to return in her car so he could confirm her apartment number, he’d done a Google search and didn’t find a Sarah McNeilly or a Sarah Pines associated with any paper or magazine.

It wasn’t until after he confronted her in the bar that he took his search to social media.

He found an Instagram page without a whole lot of content. Mainly funny memes and animal videos. There were a couple of pictures of her and the woman who was tending bar where he’d approached her. Max spent some time chasing the lines between those who followed her on Instagram and those he found in pictures with her.

There wasn’t a boyfriend, from what he could see.

And it didn’t appear that her parents were on that particular app. One family name did pop up, which Max determined was a brother. Younger by a good five years or so and living in Orange County. Or at least spent a lot of time in the OC.

Max dug back through the pictures until he found one where Sarah had done away with the glasses and was wearing a form-fitting dress and high heels.

Max would be lying if he said he didn’t like what he saw.

Knowing she was a reporter scrambling for a story was the only thing that told him not to go there.

But that didn’t mean he couldn’t look.

So he did, which kept him awake late and entirely too tired on his way to work.

Max pulled into the gates of the yard and parked next to Jeff’s truck.

He found Jeff in the office break room, pouring a cup of coffee and gnawing on a donut. “Morning,” Max said as he moved toward the coffeepot.

“Good morning. How was your weekend?”

“I can’t complain” was all Max offered. He had yet to breathe a word of the Stones to anyone. “Yours?”

“Exhausting. Seems my honey-do list gets longer every month.”

“Nicole has you running in circles?” Max asked.

“It’s the kids, the house ... her parents. I can’t find time to mow the damn yard. Nicole is threatening to hire a gardener. I’m not paying someone else to cut my damn grass.”

Max poured himself a cup of coffee and leaned against the counter. “Are there any kids in the neighborhood looking for a little extra money?”

Jeff rolled his eyes. “Not on my cookie-cutter block. The parents keep their kids so busy with sports and clubs, there isn’t room for paper routes and side jobs.”

Jeff lived in the far end of Canyon Country, where the homes were slightly more affordable but exactly as he said. Cookie-cutter. Every home looked exactly like the one across the street and next door. The CC&Rs and HOAs were completely out of control—no one had the autonomy to paint their home anything but one of the five approved colors, and the trash cans had to be put out the day of pickup or you risked a fine.

“Your yard is the size of my palm. It can’t take you that long to cut the grass.”

“You sound like my wife,” Jeff said with a glare.

Max smiled, sipped his coffee.

Sheri walked into the room. “Good, you’re both here.”

“What’s up?” Jeff asked.

“You’re finishing the freeway job today, right?”

“Probably by noon.”

Sheri nodded. “Good. I have you starting on a job in Santa Anita tomorrow.”

Max’s jaw dropped.

“You’re kidding,” Jeff said, his expression matching Max’s.

“It’s right off the 210.”

“That’s a hell of a commute, Sheri,” Max told her.

“I said it was off the freeway.”

Off the freeway didn’t mean shit if it took you an hour and a half to get there. “Can’t you find anything closer?” Jeff asked. “I hardly see my kids as it is.”

Sheri shrugged.

“Are we getting a stipend for the travel, or what?” Max asked.

“You don’t get paid for drive time. Only overtime and only when approved.”

Jeff started to argue.

Sheri cut him off.

“It’s a rush job, and overtime will be needed. Which should cut back on the drive time if you’re there after rush hour.”

That was a joke. Rush hour wasn’t a thing in LA. On any given day, you had a window between ten in the morning and two thirty in the afternoon where traffic could be decent. Anything before and after during the week was a clusterfuck.

“I know the drive sucks. But the money is good. I hope that helps.”

Sheri looked less than sorry.

Max nodded toward the door. “C’mon,” he told Jeff.

They both walked past their boss and to the truck.

Jeff bitched the entire way.

“We’re based in Santa Clarita—why the hell does she accept jobs in Santa Anita? You know she sent Mitch and that new guy to Orange County last week.”

As much as Max knew the job would suck, he found himself wondering, If this Stone family inheritance was an actual thing, would it really matter?

“Complaining isn’t going to change anything.”

Jeff grumbled anyway.

Max and Jeff worked straight through, assuring that they would leave the site by noon.

At eleven thirty, Max’s phone rang while he was packing up the truck.

“Yeah?” he answered after seeing Chase’s name pop up on the screen.

“I’m calling to let you know we have the account set up. You just need to stop by the Santa Clarita branch to sign signature cards.”

Max plugged one ear to hear better.

“Which bank?”

“There’s a Fidelity near the town center. I’ll text you the address.”

Was this really happening?

And how much was in this third of the liquid money the Stone children had floating around? “Do I need to do anything special?”

“Ask for the branch manager and give them your ID. We’ve taken care of the rest. If you run into any problems, call me.”

“Will do.”

“Where are you?” Chase asked.

“At work.”

Was that a laugh Max heard?

“Can I give you a little advice?”

Max tried to turn away from the noise of a truck backing up. “Sure.”

“Keep the numbers to yourself. People treat you differently when they know you have money.”

“Not a problem I’ve ever had.”

Two hours later, Max pulled into the parking lot of the Fidelity bank.

He walked in with dirty work boots on his feet and his motorcycle helmet in his hands.

There were a few people in line for the tellers and a few cubicles with employees sitting behind desks, staring at computer screens.

A woman glanced up but didn’t hold eye contact.

Another man was on his phone.

Max went ahead and took a place in line and waited his turn to talk with a teller.

“How can I help you?” the twentysomething girl behind the thick glass asked.

“I need to talk to the branch manager.”

“Is there a problem?”

He shook his head. “I need to sign some paperwork. They’re expecting me.”

She picked up a phone. “What is your name?”

“Max . . . Smith.”

She turned her attention away from him. “There’s a Max Smith here to see you,” she said into the receiver.

The call ended as quickly as it started.

“He’ll be right out. You can wait over there.” She pointed to a few chairs in the middle of the bank.

Max didn’t have a chance to sit before a man in a suit and tie crossed the room and extended his hand. “Maximillian Smith?”

“Max is fine.”

The man introduced himself and waved for Max to follow. “I’m Park Schultz. Come into my office. This won’t take long.”

Max set his helmet on the floor beside him once they were closed behind a glass door.

“I need to see your ID.” Park wheeled his chair closer to his desk.

Max gave Park his driver’s license.

Park looked at it and set it down before he started typing on his computer. “Fidelity has a long relationship with Stone Enterprises. Although it is a first to have anyone in the Stone family call our branch.”

“Chase spoke with you directly?”

“Yes.” Park glanced up, then back to his computer. The printer behind him started to run. “He asked that I help you directly. Which, of course, I’m happy to do.”

“I appreciate it.”

“Who do you normally bank with?”

“Wells Fargo.”

Park smiled, kept typing. “You have a credit card with them?”

“Yes.”

“You’re preapproved here for three hundred thousand. The amount in this account waives any annual fees. All I need is a signature to set that up for you.”

Max blinked.

Twice.

“Three hundred thousand ... dollars?” Max asked.

Park looked up, smiled. “Yes.”

“I didn’t think they went that high.”

“Not many qualify.”

For the next five minutes, Park gave Max a tutorial on what the bank offered and how Max had both a checking and a savings account with Fidelity. His brain glossed over most of what Park was talking about until Max finally cut the man off.

“I don’t have time for a lengthy money conversation today,” Max found himself saying. He had a date with the freeway.

“Of course.”

Park slid the paperwork across the desk and pointed out everywhere Max needed to sign. After scanning Max’s driver’s license into the computer and returning it, Park asked him to wait before he left the office.

Alone, Max sat back in the chair and looked around the room.

The only bank interaction he’d ever really had was setting up his initial account. And that happened with someone in one of those cubicles and took half an hour.

Less than five minutes later, Park returned with a folder and a binder.

“This is the checkbook. It’s a little bigger than what you may be used to. We’ve found that no one really carries a checkbook with them anymore, and this is too large to get misplaced.” Max opened the binder and saw his name and address already printed on the unused checks.

“This is your credit card, and this is your debit card.” Park slid them across the desk.

Max pushed the debit card back. “I don’t use debit cards.”

“But . . .”

“No.” In his teens, Max knew a guy who made a living hacking people’s accounts by way of debit cards. Max had avoided them ever since.

“Okay.” Park didn’t argue. “All the funds are immediately available. There’s no waiting period since the money is coming from one Fidelity account to another.”

“Good, good.” Max shifted in his chair.

“This folder has everything we have to offer and basic information about our online banking, bill pay ... the usual stuff. If you need anything, please call me directly. Consider me your private banker. Do you have any questions?”

“One.”

“I’m listening.”

“Can I see what is in these accounts?”

Park lifted his hands in the air and laughed. “Oh, yes. Sorry.”

He typed into his computer again and then turned the screen so Max could see.

“The first is your checking, the second is your savings.”

Max took in the numbers, blinked, and leaned closer to the screen.

“Are those zeros in the right place?”

Park looked at his computer, then back to Max. “Does something look wrong? I was told to transfer two million into the checking and twenty-three into the savings.”

Every ounce of saliva in Max’s mouth dried up.

Holy shit.

“Can anyone else take money from this account?”

“Not unless you authorize them to.”

“Not even Chase Stone?” Max stopped staring at the computer screen to look at the banker’s stoic face.

“Of course not. This account is in your name. Mr. Stone can put money into it, but he cannot take it out.”

A few minutes later, Max walked out of the bank and into the sunshine.

He looked up into the blue California sky and started to laugh.