And I knew what they were capable of when money was involved.
Most guests had already taken their seats by the time I finally stepped away from the casket. My black dress clung to my back in the humid chapel air, and I had just turned toward the aisle when I noticed three figures approaching me with deliberate steps.
Helena Mercer.
Her daughter Vanessa.
And her eldest son, Marcus.
If Daniel had been alive, he would have noticed the way they moved toward me — too coordinated, too purposeful — and he would have quietly stepped between us the way he always did when tensions inside his family began to rise.
Helena stopped a few feet away, her posture stiff and upright like a queen inspecting something beneath her station. Her eyes traveled slowly over me, from my hair to my shoes, and there was something unsettling about how little emotion sat behind her gaze.
Not grief.
Not sympathy.
Just calculation.
Vanessa crossed her arms beside her mother, her lips curled into that familiar tight smile that never reached her eyes, while Marcus lingered half a step behind them like a shadow waiting to fall.
I had barely opened my mouth to speak when Helena produced a thick envelope from her handbag and held it out toward me.
