The numbers still felt wrong next to the reality of death.
Eight and a half million dollars.
Six Manhattan lofts.
I hated even thinking about it. But Gideon had planned carefully. He had made sure I would never have to depend on anyone—especially not my own family.
Using my key, I let myself into my parents’ house in Westchester. Everything inside looked exactly as it always had: spotless, quiet, controlled, as if emotions were not allowed to disturb the neatness of the place. The faint smell of lemon cleaner hung in the air. Framed photos of smiling family moments lined the hallway.
I didn’t call out when I entered. My throat felt tight and my eyes burned from crying.
As I approached the living room, I heard voices coming from the dining room.
My father Howard. My mother Evelyn.
And my sister Marina laughing.
