“James Frost?”

​

A nod, given suspiciously in light of the stranger in his Winchester-clad front hall.

​

“The… fifth?”

 

Another nod.

 

“My name is D.I. Williams, lad. I’m here to inform you of some bad news.”

 

“I’m not a lad, I’m 40.”

 

“Alright… son, it says here you’re…” D.I. Williams checked his phone, “…twelve?”

 

“Whatever.” A long, reluctant pause from both parties echoed silence around the dark, wooden-panelled room. “And they call me Kyle. I prefer it.”

 

“Kyle?”

 

“Yes. My mother’s name for me.”

 

“Alright. Kyle, I regret to inform you that your father has died. He was the victim of a traffic collision—” the D.I. continued, but Kyle wasn’t listening any more. Finally, the right parent had perished. He was Lord of his domain.

 

“So, his God didn’t save him after all,” he muttered as he turned, and strolled towards the drawing room, away from the coming commiserations. Kyle’s father, James Frost the Fourth, was a Lord and Reverend. In tandem, they gave a man born to privilege a reason to feel charitable without giving up a penny of his amassed, inherited fortune. This unspent fortune was now Kyle’s.

 

To everyone else, he seemed a twelve-year old boy. Which was physically the truth. But he had knocked time travel out of the park by the time he was 23, and now he spent his time rushing back and forth between the ages of ten and thirty-five. At ten nobody suspected you of serious crimes against morality; and at thirty-five, people tended to take your opinion on most things seriously when you flashed a few PhDs in their face.

​

“Kyle Frost?” the D.I. called down the hall after him, but Kyle knew he could count on his valet to stop the man from following him. This was it. The money was his. Now, he could really get down to business.