Three days after the funeral—while sympathy cards still covered the table—my sister hauled boxes into our Connecticut house, declared she’d inherited the home and $28 million, and hissed, “You’re useless now—find somewhere else to die.” I was still on a cane; she thought the will had erased me. But at the reading, the attorney opened the real document and chuckled, “Did you even read it?” My sister went pale…

He winced.

“It’s not personal, Sierra. We just really need the money.”

I went very still.

“Need—”

“The house alone is worth—” He stopped, caught himself. “I mean, the estate should be settled quickly for everyone’s sake.”

“Derek.” I leaned forward. “What’s going on?”

He was quiet for a long moment. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper:

“We’re in trouble. The investments I made last year… they didn’t pan out. We owe a lot. More than we can cover.”

“How much?”

He looked at the ceiling, at the floor—anywhere but at me.

“Four hundred thousand, give or take.”

The number hung between us like smoke.

“The bank is threatening to take our house,” he continued. “The kids’ school is asking about next semester’s tuition. Victoria’s trying to hold everything together, but—”

“Derek.”

Victoria’s voice—sharp as a blade—came from the doorway.

We both jumped. I hadn’t heard her car pull up.

“What are you doing here?”

She grabbed his arm, her knuckles white.

“Let’s go. Now.”

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