I stopped in the hallway, unseen, my hand gripping my purse strap.
My father’s voice was calm and businesslike.
“She’ll be in shock. That’s when we get her to sign.”
My mother replied, “The funeral makes it perfect timing. She’ll be vulnerable.”
Marina let out a short laugh.
“She always is. Just tell her it’s for ‘family protection.’ She’ll believe it.”
My stomach twisted.
My father continued as casually as if he were discussing finances at the bank.
“We need the lofts transferred into the family trust immediately. At least four of them. She doesn’t understand Manhattan property.”
My mother added quickly, “And the cash—eight and a half million. She’ll waste it. We’ll manage it for her.”
Marina laughed again.
“She’ll give it to us. She still thinks we care.”
My heart pounded in my ears. A moment earlier I had believed grief was the worst thing I would face that day.
Now I realized something else entirely.
