The leather chair creaked when Holden shot to his feet, his face turning the color of raw meat. I watched from my seat across Mr. Donnelly’s oak desk, my hands folded in my lap, my wedding ring catching the afternoon light coming through the office windows.
Fifty-one years I’d worn that ring.
Fifty-one years building a life with a man who deserved better than this.
“Those properties are mine.”
Holden’s voice cracked on the last word.
“Dad built them for me.”
Next to him, Pascali leaned forward in her chair, her ice-chip eyes gleaming like she could already see the money in her bank account. She’d worn sunglasses into the building, designer ones that cost more than most people’s monthly rent.
Now they sat pushed up on her head, holding back hair that had been professionally colored two days ago.
I knew because she’d posted about it on social media. Twelve photos of herself in the salon chair.
“We’ve had them appraised,” Pascali said, her manicured fingernail tapping against the armrest.
“Current market value is approximately $4.2 million.
We’d like to discuss liquidation timelines.”
“And Mrs. Thorne…”
Mr.
Donnelly’s voice cut through her words like a knife through butter. He was a tall man, seventy-one years old, with silver hair and eyes that had seen too much of life’s ugliness, but chose kindness anyway.
He’d been Gerard’s friend for thirty years, since before he even passed the bar exam.
“Perhaps you’d like to let me finish reading the will.”
Pascali’s mouth snapped shut, but her fingers kept tapping.
Tap tap tap against the leather armrest. The sound reminded me of rain on a tin roof.
Except rain was supposed to be soothing.
This sound made my teeth hurt. Mr.
Donnelly adjusted his reading glasses and looked down at the papers spread across his desk.
“As I was saying, the seventeen rental properties currently held in the Thorn Family Trust will be—”
“Yes.”
Pascali uncrossed and recrossed her legs, her heel clicking against the hardwood floor.
“Those properties, we understand they generate approximately fifteen thousand per month in rental income.
But with strategic liquidation, we could—”
“The properties are not Holden’s inheritance.”
The words fell into the room like stones dropped into still water. For a moment, nobody moved. Outside Mr.
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