She will reflexively dismiss the phone-call and go back to chatting with internet-friends on her phone; only spammers call at this hour. 

Moments later a text message appears on her phone, it reads " Hello, this is Wilson Abernathy from Abernathy and Jones. We tried to reach you by phone regarding your uncle Johnathan Collins. Please call us back at your earliest convenience at [Phone Number]. Thank you" 

Okay that is actually the name of her legal guardian's lawyer she should probably get that. 

She calls the number. 

After a few moments Alecto makes it past the secretary on the other side of the phone and through to Wilson, who answers, voice calm and deep, " Alecto thank you for calling back, I want to apologies for the late hour but the circumstances necessitate timely action. Last night your uncle passed away, I'm sorry for your loss". He pauses for a moment before continuing " while as the executor of your late uncle's will I am able to manage affairs, the process would be smoother if you came back home"  

What. 

"What. How? When?" 

"They think it was a stroke of some kind, he was found by a group of his graduate students invited to dinner"  sigh " we shouldn't expect a coroners report for several days at least". 

"Okay. I'll be in Melbourne as soon as possible. Is there anything else I need to know?" 

Well. No. First, she should confirm the story. She doesn't know the phone number of her uncle's graduate students, but she does know the names of any of the ones he liked enough to invite to dinner, and half of them have linkedin and half of the rest has Facebook. She sends out a flurry of texts, without dropping the call. 

The next few minutes blur past as Wilson starts to wrap up the call reiterating the importance that Alecto return home to Melbourne with all haste. Her messages get swift replies, condolences and offers of assistance confirm her worst fears. She will never see her uncle again, never wonder at his insights, cringe at his jokes or revel in his pride. Johnathan Vincent Arman Collins is no more, remembered only by his beloved niece. 

Well, also remembered by a seemingly endless stream of enthusiastic grad students, apparently. Did the old bastard have any friends his own age? The thought sends a wave of grief flooding through her; maybe he did and she just never met them. 

She starts to pack, being more thorough than she'd normally be for the need of suitable funeral dresses (not that this is a problem, given her propensity for outfits which are black, lacy, and far too expensive) and in anticipation of shenanigans regarding her own possessions, scattered as they are over three residences in two countries, two of which are owned by a dead man (and one by a man who may as well be dead for all the good he's done her). Everything important, she's going to keep on her person, or at least in her checked baggage, unless it really won't survive travelling, and even if it breaks her heart to pack up a collection of knick-knacks mainly from Jonathan's journeys around the world that he will never look upon again. 

And because he (sob) taught her to be careful in such situations, she deems it wise to transfer a chunk of money out of his emergency credit card to her own account, and to withdraw a similarly large chunk of cash (in pounds and dollars) to conceal on her person and in her baggage. If the worst that happens is a lawyer making her give it back, then, well. That's a pretty good outcome. She wishes she could carry a knife, or really anything.

And sigh, because she really probably has to. She texts her dad, saying where she's going but not why. Either he already knows or she wants to get to the lawyers first. 

Hours pass. With bags packed, a flight from Heathrow to Melbourne booked, and a growing sense of unease, Alecto sits in the back seat of a black cab, staring at a text from her father. It reads, "Have fun. I'm really under the gun at the moment. We should find time for dinner together soon." The past few years remind her that "soon" probably means some time this quarter. Her father wasn't always this distant. In moving to London, he fled reminders of his deceased wife, with Alecto being the only one he couldn't run from.

A light drizzle matches the mood as the cab pulls into the international departures drop-off. After a flurry of motion, Alecto is left standing alone under the sterile light, bags by her side, and the familiar departures lounge ahead of her.

She reads self-indulgent fiction on the plane. Too many of her nonfiction books were recommendations. 

She's going to head straight to the lawyers office, on the principal of dealing with this as swiftly as possible. She's mastered the art of sleeping on planes (rich family helps), so she's not that ill-equipped to go bother lawyers immediately. She freshens up her appearance in the business class lounge bathroom first, though, the rote action a pleasant distraction, and then she calls an uber to their office.

As the Uber driver helps her load luggage, Alceto is jostled by a young lady who rushes past to greet a group looking for a taxi. No matter how many times Alceto makes this trip, the reversal of seasons always comes as a shock. Even in the morning, the Australian heat is already making itself known.

Well, the sooner she can get into proper air-conditioning the better. Lawyers are hardly going to go without in that respect. 

She checks her pockets after being jostled, not that anything genuinely important is in any pocket susceptible to picking. 

Her fingers brush an unexpected object, cold to the touch. Pulling it from her pocket, she finds an engraved silver coin polished to a near-mirror finish. Both sides of the coin are engraved with a web of interlocking symbols, devoid of any mark of denomination or origin.

What the fuck. She is going to rapidly pocket it so people don't see her marvelling at the possibly-stolen coin of not actually a language anyone has found significant enough to write a book about. She will try to memorise what she can about the mystery woman. 

And then, once she's safely in the uber and driving away from the airport security system, she will take it out to examine it more closely for mechanisms or tracking devices or makers marks or such. 

The coin is a marvel. Upon closer inspection, the many dots incorporated into the design that she first thought might be diacritics in some unfamiliar language are, in fact, minuscule engraved eyes staring up at her

That's sorta creepy. She loves it. Why did a stranger secretly give this to her? She is going to wrap it carefully in a spare handkerchief and keep it in a spare pocket. 

She should show it to her - Hmm. No. 

It's a short ride from the airport to the offices of Abernathy and Jones, and in no time Alceto finds herself once again alone with her luggage, facing a threshold. A modest two-story building, the office looks like it belongs on the heritage list. A large double wooden door with a brass plaque reading 'Abernathy and Jones' is the only detail proving she's reached her destination.

She'll try the door first and knock if it's locked. She's eager to get this over with. 

The door swings wide, soundlessly on well-oiled hinges, to reveal a small foyer and a graying, thin woman behind a dark wood desk—presumably the secretary Alceto spoke with briefly on the phone.

"Hello miss, may I help you?" she asks, noticeably curious about the bags in a pile just beyond the threshold.

"Alecto Collins. I called ahead?" 

Embarrassed that she didn't put two and two together, the secretary rushes to bring Alceto's bags in before gesturing for her to sit on one of the leather couches and disappearing down a hallway.

Before long, Alceto finds herself in Wilson's office. A study in mahogany and leather, the room is adorned on all sides with bookshelves laden with pristine bound books. Across from Alceto sits Wilson Abernathy, an owl-faced man with round glasses adorning his round face.

"Thank you for coming so quickly. I want to start by giving you my heartfelt condolences; your uncle was a great man," he says, pausing a moment before continuing. "According to your uncle's will, you are the sole beneficiary of his estate. While the state has yet to provide a death certificate, your uncle left very specific instructions that I hand this to you in person as soon as I learned of his death."

Wilson reaches behind his desk for a moment to retrieve something. In this moment, Alceto realizes that there is no computer on his desk, no laptop, and no tablet—just an ornate writing set and a stack of books. Before she has a chance to wonder at how odd that is, Wilson turns back and places a manila folder on the desk.

She still hasn't figured out how to politely accept condolences, so she just sort of moves on. She's glad to see that her lawyer is presumably not using chatgpt to save himself some effort. She's also glad to hear that there will be a relatively unambiguous lack of soul-sucking legal battles over ownership of various places she considers her homes, assuming he didn't have any secret bastards floating around to contest the will. 

She'll take a look at the folder. 

The folder has a weight to it that shifts when she picks it up. The plain manila envelope bears a stick-on label that reads 'For Alecto, from Jonathan.' Otherwise, its surface is unblemished.

And as she opens it to reveal that it contains blank paper and a key, Alecto manages to get the most godawful paper cut - like the paper itself was out to get her, a distracted portion of her mind notes, and spilling drips of blood across the paper.