Chosen To Die. Lisa Jackson

could have just asked his father’s attorney, Barton Tinneman, for a copy, he supposed, but truth to tell, he didn’t trust Tinneman any more than he held faith in his father’s friends, most of whom had already died. And that went double for the members of the damned board.

      The safe had an old-fashioned combination lock. No electronics or bells and whistles of any sort. Brady had memorized the numbers as a kid of five and never, ever, let on that he knew. Well, his sister, too, had learned the secret sequence, but it wouldn’t do her a whole helluva lot of good where she was, locked away in a sanitarium, barely able to function, now would it? He felt a bit of guilt about her condition, then shrugged it off. Padgett had been unable to care for herself for half her life, nearly fifteen years, and before that time, she’d been a raving bitch, so he rarely spent too much time worrying about how she’d ended up there or what his part in it had been.

      It was all water under the bridge.

      He heard the soft click of ancient tumblers as he turned the dial.

      “Sorry, Dad,” he said aloud with the final flick of his wrist, the dial stopping at just the right spot, the lock giving way. Smiling in satisfaction, Brady set down his drink and yanked open the door to the safe.

      He was certain the will was inside.

      All he had to do, once he retrieved it, was wait a few hours, maybe days, for the old man to die.