Chapter 1: The Funeral

James Blackman, age twelve, stood beneath a leaden sky that seemed to bow under the weight of its own mourning. His great-uncle Joufua, the patriarch of the sprawling and fractious Blackman family, lay in a mahogany coffin so ostentatious it could have doubled as a luxury yacht in another life. James felt the urge to scratch his nose but restrained himself, knowing his mother, Venus, would spot the fidgeting and swiftly quell it with one of her sharp looks. Venus Blackman—née DuClair—was a woman whose glares could halt a stampede.

Around the graveyard, the Blackman family assembled like vultures over an injured prey. They wore the required somber expressions, but their eyes glittered with something far less pious than grief. Even James, with his limited grasp of adult hypocrisy, could feel it: the funeral wasn’t about bidding farewell. It was about seeing who would walk away with Joufua’s wealth.

In the front row of mourners, Venus stood tall and straight as a bayonet, her perfectly tailored black dress a sartorial declaration of superiority. Beside her, Jeun-Pierre Jr., James’s father, looked vaguely uncomfortable in his ill-fitted suit. James thought his father had the air of a man who’d just remembered he left the oven on but couldn’t excuse himself to check.

Then there was Marlo.

Marlo was the kind of man who could walk into a room and immediately make it feel cramped. He stood a few rows back, his heavyset frame clad in a suit that strained against his shoulders. His hair slicked back with a product that could probably grease an entire car engine, Marlo leaned on a silver-tipped cane that he didn’t need but clearly enjoyed wielding as a prop. Surrounding him were his brood—cousins, half-cousins, and aunts thrice-removed—an entourage that oozed collective disdain.

“Parasites,” Venus hissed under her breath, barely moving her lips.

James, who had overheard his mother say the same about the neighbors’ cats, decided that being a parasite was probably bad.

The priest began the ceremony, intoning with the solemnity of a man who knew he was being judged less for his words than for how long they would take. Joufua’s eulogy was mercifully short, focusing on his indomitable business acumen, his philanthropy, and his indeterminate kindness—a description that might have baffled anyone who’d actually known the man.

As the coffin was lowered, Marlo cleared his throat. Loudly.

“I think we all know,” Marlo began, his voice thick with an oily charm that didn’t fool anyone, “that Joufua’s real legacy isn’t in this wooden box. It’s in the fortune he left behind. And as his true kin, it’s only fitting that—”

“His true kin?” Venus turned so sharply that her pearl earrings caught the light like tiny daggers. Her voice, though quiet, cut through Marlo’s speech with surgical precision.

Jeun-Pierre Jr. tugged at her sleeve, murmuring something about decorum, but Venus shook him off like a fly.

“Yes, true kin,” Marlo repeated, drawing himself up to his full height, which wasn’t particularly impressive. “Unlike some of us who only married into the family.”

James watched as his mother’s expression became as cold and as polished as the headstone they were gathered around. Marlo had lit the fuse, and everyone knew it. The gathered mourners shifted uneasily, their expressions a mix of morbid curiosity and anticipation, like spectators at the Roman Colosseum.

“If we’re discussing who truly belongs,” Venus said, her voice smooth as silk and twice as sharp, “I’d be happy to review the genealogical record. Shall we begin with your mother’s extensive contributions to the family tree?”

The gasp that followed was audible even over the wind. Marlo’s grip on his cane tightened, his knuckles turning white. “This isn’t the time or place, Venus.”

“And yet you started it, Marlo,” Venus replied, her smile like a blade slipping between ribs.

Before Marlo could retort, the priest interjected with a hasty, “Let us pray.” The crowd obediently bowed their heads, though James noticed many kept one eye open, watching the Venus-Marlo showdown like children peeking through their fingers during a scary movie.

As the prayer droned on, James stole a glance at the coffin. It struck him as odd that such a grandiose man could fit into such a small box. Uncle Joufua had been larger than life, after all, and now he was just… gone.

The moment passed as the adults returned to their simmering hostilities, and James thought to himself that if the dead could watch their funerals, Joufua was probably smirking in his grave.

He had, after all, left behind a will.

The Will, Rewritten

Joufua Blackman had always been a man of precision. His will, like the man himself, was deliberate, sharp-edged, and utterly devoid of sentiment. The family, now crammed into his cavernous study, seemed to sense this. They shifted uncomfortably in their chairs as Mr. Hackett, the family lawyer, opened the envelope with the kind of solemnity usually reserved for defusing bombs.

“To my nephew, Jeun-Pierre Jr., and his wife, Venus,” Hackett began, his voice steady, “I leave the Montclair Estate, including its furnishings, grounds, and holdings. May it serve as a reminder of the legacy I built and the standards I upheld.”

The room tensed. The Montclair Estate wasn’t just property; it was a symbol of Joufua’s legacy. Its marble columns, manicured gardens, and stately halls spoke of generations of Blackman wealth and influence. That it now belonged to Jeun-Pierre and Venus sent an unmistakable message: they were the chosen ones.

Venus tilted her head, the faintest smile playing on her lips. She didn’t bother to glance at Marlo, but her satisfaction filled the room like perfume.

Marlo, for his part, sat rigid, his hands gripping the silver-tipped cane he didn’t need. Hackett continued without pausing, though there was a hint of amusement in his tone as he read the next clause.

“To Marlo and his kin,” Hackett said, his voice unflinching, “I leave the sum of one dollar.”

The silence was immediate and electric.

“One dollar?” Marlo repeated, his voice incredulous and rising. “One dollar? What kind of insult is this?”

Venus finally turned to him, her expression smooth and untroubled. “It’s not an insult, Marlo. It’s an evaluation.”

Hackett raised a hand to stave off further outbursts. “Mr. Blackman anticipated that this might be controversial and left an additional note for Mr. Marlo Blackman.” He unfolded a separate slip of paper and began to read.

‘Marlo, your dedication to visiting me every holiday was a service to yourself, not to me. Your concern was as counterfeit as the charm you thought you possessed. One dollar reflects the true value of your efforts, and I consider it a generous gesture.’

The room erupted.

Marlo shot out of his chair, his face the color of an overripe tomato. “This is slander! Lies! I devoted years to that man! And this is what I get? A dollar and a posthumous insult?”

“Keep your voice down, Marlo,” Venus said, inspecting her nails. “You’re making it abundantly clear why Joufua preferred philanthropy to family.”

The Blackman Philanthropic Trust

Hackett cleared his throat, his professional calm unwavering. “The remainder of Mr. Blackman’s estate will be transferred to the Blackman Philanthropic Trust, a fund dedicated to education, scientific research, and the arts, as well as to improving conditions for underprivileged communities.”

Another ripple of murmurs filled the room. A cousin who hadn’t spoken since the funeral dared to raise her voice. “Excuse me, Mr. Hackett, but did Uncle Joufua explain why he would give his fortune to strangers instead of his own family?”

Venus answered before Hackett could. “Because strangers, at least, have the potential to be useful.”

This time, the laughter wasn’t nervous—it was loud and bitter, with more than a few relatives glaring daggers at Venus. Marlo, however, was beyond words. He paced the room like a caged animal, occasionally muttering curses under his breath.

“I’ll contest it,” he finally declared, stopping in front of Hackett. “I’ll take this to court. That will is a fraud!”

Hackett, who had clearly prepared for this moment, adjusted his glasses and replied with maddening calm. “You are, of course, free to pursue legal action, Mr. Blackman. However, Mr. Joufua Blackman retained me specifically to ensure that his wishes were legally unassailable. The will is airtight. Contesting it would be an expensive and ultimately futile endeavor.”

The implication hung in the air: Marlo, whose finances were already a whispered topic of family gossip, couldn’t afford a legal battle.

James and the Journals

Meanwhile, twelve-year-old James sat quietly, clutching the envelope of journals his great-uncle had left him. The room’s drama seemed to swirl around him without touching him directly. He opened his mouth to ask his parents what he was supposed to do with them, but Venus, ever vigilant, cut him off.

“Not here,” she said firmly, her voice low but commanding. “Whatever Joufua gave you, it’s yours. Keep it to yourself for now.”

James nodded, though he wasn’t entirely sure what secrets the journals might hold. They felt heavy in his hands, not physically, but in the way that important things often did.

The Departure

By the time the reading concluded, the room had emptied, each family member carrying their own measure of defeat. Some left with whispered vows of revenge, while others accepted their losses with silent bitterness.

Marlo lingered by the door, muttering incoherent threats to no one in particular. His entourage hovered uncertainly, as if weighing the risks of following him or cutting their losses entirely.

As the Blackmans filed out, Venus paused to address Hackett. “Airtight, you said?”

“Completely,” Hackett replied with a small, satisfied smile.

“Good,” she said, adjusting her hat. “The last thing we need is another family reunion.”

In the car, James stared out the window, clutching the journals as if they might vanish. The sky was overcast, the trees along the road swaying ominously in the wind. For the first time, he wondered if Joufua had seen something in him—something worth entrusting with whatever truths lay in those pages.

He glanced at his parents, who were deep in conversation about property taxes and garden renovations. Venus, as always, looked victorious. Jeun-Pierre Jr. looked relieved.

James tightened his grip on the journals. Whatever Joufua had left him, it wasn’t just for show. And as the car pulled away from the estate, James couldn’t help but feel that his great-uncle had left him something more valuable than money.

He had left him a mystery.