Three Suitcases Left in the Rain and Nineteen Million Dollars in Cancun
Sable turned around on the brick walkway, her red nails tapping against her phone screen. “The appraisers need the master closet completely cleared by tomorrow morning.”
“The appraisal?” I asked. “We buried Gordon two hours ago.”
“The bank does not wait for funerals,” Sable said.
I carried my black leather purse inside the house and set it on the mahogany console table. My fingers brushed the worn leather notebook tucked inside the bag, the one containing the private ledger Gordon had given me in secret.
On the dining room sideboard, the silver coffee pot we had used for thirty years sat tarnishing in the gray light. It had not been polished since the illness began, and the metal was turning a dull, smoky gray.
Sable stepped into the foyer behind us. Before she even took off her designer coat, she reached out and turned the heavy deadbolt on the front door.
“We need to have a serious talk about how we manage things from here on out,” Sable said, tucking her key ring into her pocket.
“This is my home,” I said, keeping my voice quiet and even.
“The probate estate is completely empty, Cassandra,” Sable said.
“We do not have the final numbers yet,” I said. “Frank Higgins is still reviewing the accounts.”
“We have enough numbers to know we cannot afford to keep this massive place running just for you,” Sable said.
I walked into the kitchen to escape the sharp sound of her voice. I poured cold tea into a glass, my hand remarkably steady despite the cold weight in my chest.
Nathan came in a moment later, his hands still deep in his pockets. He did not look at the tarnishing silver on the sideboard as he passed it.
“Nathan,” I said. “Your wife is talking about my home as if I do not live here.”
