Then he placed his old phone in my hand.
“If I’m gone before I finish this,” he said, “give that phone to Martin Shaw. Not Ethan. Not his mother. Martin.”
Martin Shaw was Dad’s attorney.
So at the luncheon, I calmly pulled my wrist from Ethan’s hand, folded my napkin, and stood.
“I’ll be there at ten.”
Ethan smiled.
He thought I had surrendered.
That was his first mistake.
By the next morning, Marjorie was already dressing for the life she believed my inheritance would buy her.
She arrived at Martin Shaw’s office wearing cream wool and pearls, looking less like a woman attending a will reading and more like someone preparing to sign papers at a country club.
Ethan wore the watch I had bought him years earlier, back when I still believed ambition and cruelty were two different things.
Caleb came too.
He smelled of expensive cologne and nervous sweat.
He gave me a small nod, the kind someone might give a loan officer before asking for money.
Martin’s conference room overlooked Main Street.
Rain tapped steadily against the windows.
Dad’s absence seemed to occupy a chair of its own.
Marjorie placed a thick folder on the table.
Inside were glossy photographs of the colonial house.
White pillars.
Dark shutters.
A massive kitchen.
A sunroom overlooking acres of landscaped property.
