A door my parents could walk through with a judge and come out holding Nathan’s money.
Patricia leaned forward.
“She’s been so shut down since Nathan died,” she whispered. “Not herself.”
I answered calmly.
Clearly.
Gave him nothing.
After twenty minutes, I excused myself for water, walked to the back porch, and called James again.
This time he answered.
“Don’t leave that house yet,” he said. “Nathan set something up before he died. Come to my office tomorrow morning.”
For the first time since the funeral, my pulse rose from something other than fear.
“What did he set up?”
James paused.
“Protection.”
The next day, I drove to his office in Glendale.
James was waiting at the door.
Inside, he slid Nathan’s will across the desk.
Then a sealed envelope.
Nathan’s handwriting.
For Fay.
My fingers went numb before I opened it.
The first line read, “I know your family.”
I pressed my palm against the desk.
The room blurred.
Then James opened another folder and said the words that made everything inside me go still.
“Nathan was afraid they would come for you. So he built a trust they cannot touch.”
I looked up.
James did not smile.
“And Fay, there’s something else. Your father has been asking Nathan for money. Four times. I think we need to look at the church accounts before the gala.”
That was when I realized this was no longer only about my inheritance.
I came home from the funeral to tell my parents and sister that my husband had left me $8.5M and six Manhattan lofts.
