For thirteen years, I had waited. And now, the climax of my agonizing patience was unfolding in this sterile, freezing room.
The heavy door swung open, and Melissa walked in. It was the first time I was seeing her in the flesh, though I had studied hundreds of photographs of her over the past decade. She was exactly twenty minutes behind Victor’s estate attorney.
She didn’t shed a single tear. There was no redness in her eyes, no tremble in her lip. Instead, she carried herself with the indignant impatience of someone waiting in line at a luxury boutique. Hooked over her forearm was a limited-edition Hermès Birkin bag—the exact crocodile leather model I had seen itemized on Victor’s hidden offshore credit card statement three months ago. It cost more than Ethan’s entire college tuition.
I sat in the corner armchair, my hands folded neatly in my lap, and I almost laughed out loud at the sheer, unadulterated audacity of it all.
