Chapter 2
Dad held me with one arm and opened the briefcase with the other like he'd done it a hundred times before, but his hand wasn't steady. I watched the brass clasp catch and flip, watched the lid fall back. The inside smelled like old paper and leather.
The dining room had gone completely silent. No one at the long table moved. I could see Mrs. Keller from the country club frozen with her wine glass halfway to her mouth, and Mr. Keller's hand still on the back of his chair. The white flowers in the centerpiece didn't even tremble.
Dad shifted me just enough to slide the papers out. They were thick, cream-colored, heavier than regular printer paper. The top sheet caught the chandelier light. He turned it toward me first, then toward her.
I saw my name before I understood it.
LILY HAYES - SOLE BENEFICIER
The words were underlined in dark ink, sharp and official, and underneath was a looping cursive signature I recognized from birthday cards taped to the fridge. Grandma's handwriting. The tail of the Y in Hayes swept long under the line.
My mother left everything to Lily.
Dad read it aloud. His voice was hoarse this time, not angry but tired and broken. "My mother left everything to Lily."
I didn't know what everything meant at seven. I thought it meant her house and her jewelry box and the cookie jar shaped like a strawberry that still sat on the kitchen counter. I didn't know it meant the mansion we were sitting in, or the bank accounts, or the foundation with her name on the brick building downtown that Dad drove past every morning on his way to work.
The woman — my stepmother — stared at the paper. Her mouth had fallen open. The tear that had been on her cheek had left a shiny track, but she wasn't crying anymore. She was staring like the words might change if she looked hard enough.
I twisted in Dad's arms to look up at him. His short brown hair was messy from where he'd run his hand through it. His eyes were red at the edges. He was looking down at me, and for the first time that night his expression softened into something that looked like relief and fear mixed together.
"Sweetheart, did you know what Grandma did?" he whispered to me, so quiet only I could hear. He smoothed my tulle skirt down over my knees.
I shook my head. My long light brown hair fell forward over my beaded dress. "Grandma said this dress was for special dinners," I said, not understanding why that came out. It was the only thing I could think to say about Grandma.
Behind Dad's shoulder, I saw her — the stepmother — finally blink. She sat back on her heels, her hands flat on the polished floor now, as if she needed it to hold her up. Her long reddish hair had fallen forward and she didn't push it back.
Someone at the table coughed. No one else spoke.
Dad didn't put the paper away. He held it up a little higher, so the light hit the signature. He looked straight at her over my head.
"This was signed two weeks before Mom passed," he said. "At the hospital. With her lawyer. Not at this table. Not tonight."
She flinched at the word hospital. I remembered Grandma in the hospital bed, how she'd held my hand and told me I was her favorite story. She'd been so small under the white blanket.
Dad's grip tightened around me, protective now. He wasn't stern anymore. He was shielding.
Then his eyes lifted, just a fraction, past her head, toward the ceiling corner where the ornate crown molding met the wainscoting. He went still.
I followed his gaze. I didn't know what I was looking for until I saw it — a small black dome tucked up against the white trim, its dark lens catching the chandelier light like an eye that had been open the whole time.
May you like
"It recorded everything," he said, and this time he wasn't talking to her. He was talking to the room.
The stepmother's head snapped toward the camera. Her blue eyes went wider than before, and all the color left her face.
