Then Ethan died suddenly from an aneurysm.
At the funeral, my father held me tightly while photographers watched.
Three days later, he asked about Ethan’s will.
That was when I finally understood what his grief was really about.
Now, eleven days after burying my husband, Richard was dragging me across my own foyer while his new wife, Vanessa — seven years younger than I was — followed behind us wearing my silk robe.
My robe.
Inside my house.
And holding a glass of Ethan’s twenty-year-old Scotch.
“Richard,” Vanessa said lazily, “try not to ruin the rug.”
My father finally released my hair and shoved me toward the open doorway.
Cold rain poured onto the stone steps outside.
“You’ve got ten minutes,” he said. “Then you’re gone.”
I steadied myself.
“Under whose authority?”
He smiled.
Then he pulled out a document.
“Ethan transferred this property into the Caldwell Family Holdings Trust before he died. And according to this…”
He waved the paper in front of me.
“…I’ve been appointed temporary administrator.”
I recognized the letterhead.
