I took a trembling breath, forcing myself to look away from the house I loved. I guided my children back into our aging sedan. The doors slammed shut, sealing us in the cold, damp interior.
“Mom?” Ethan’s voice trembled. “What do we do? We can’t let them take everything.”
“I know, baby. I know.” My mind was racing, scrambling for a lifeline. I rested my forehead against the cold steering wheel, closing my eyes.
Think, Claire. Think.
My thoughts drifted back to a Tuesday afternoon, two months ago. The hospice room had smelled of antiseptic and fading hope. David had been unusually lucid that day. He had pulled my ear down to his dry lips, his breath rattling in his chest.
“Claire,” he had whispered, his grip on my hand surprisingly strong. “My father is a shark. He only knows how to smell blood. When I’m gone, he will try to erase you. He will try to take it all back.”
“Don’t talk like that, David,” I had cried.
“Listen to me,” he had commanded gently. “Do not fight him. Let him think he’s won. But when he makes his move, look beneath the passenger side. Exactly where you dropped your cherry lipstick on our very first date. You’ll find what you need. And Claire? When you find it… give the signal.”
I snapped my eyes open.
“Ethan,” I whispered, my voice suddenly steady. “Get out of the front seat. Move to the back with Maya.”
