I read every word. It took four minutes, and nobody spoke. It was a petition for temporary financial guardianship. If I signed, Chloe Marie Hobbes gained legal authority over every financial decision in my life. Bank accounts. Property. Investments. Everything Nathan built, managed by a twenty-seven-year-old who had never held a job for six consecutive months.
I set it down. “I’d like my own attorney to review this first.”
Patricia’s hand landed on my forearm. “You don’t need a lawyer, Fay. This is family.”
“I appreciate that, but I’m not signing anything today.”
The room went cold. Voss clicked his pen. Patricia’s fingers tightened just enough for me to feel the pressure underneath the tenderness. “Sweetheart. We’re trying to protect you.”
“Protecting me and controlling me are not the same thing, Mom.”
I stood, took the form with me, and walked upstairs. Behind me, low and hard, I heard her say, “Fine. We’ll go to court.”
I folded the petition and slid it into my suitcase. Another piece of evidence. Another forty-eight hours survived.
Saturday, Chloe drove up from the city with Ryan. Ryan Alcott was twenty-nine, a software engineer from a normal family in New Jersey. He shook my hand at the door and said, “I’m really sorry about Nathan, Fay. He was a good guy.” He meant it. His eyes didn’t slide away when he said it.
Lunch was almost domestic. Gerald carved a roast. Chloe talked centerpieces. Ryan asked about the museum. Then Ryan stepped outside to take a work call, and the mask dropped in under five seconds.
Chloe leaned across the kitchen island. “Look. Just cooperate. Mom’s doing this for all of us.”
“All of us?”
“Do you know how much my wedding costs? I can’t keep putting it on credit cards.” She lowered her voice. “And Ryan doesn’t know about the debt. He definitely doesn’t need to know about any of this. So sign the papers and everything goes back to normal.”
“Normal.”
“Don’t be selfish, Fay. You don’t even need that money.” She picked up her wine glass and delivered the sentence I will never forget. “Nathan’s dead. What are you going to spend it on?”
I set down my fork and looked at my sister. Twenty-seven. Polished nails. Borrowed confidence. A kind, oblivious man in the backyard who had no idea he was engaged to a stranger.
“You’re right,” I said. “Nathan’s dead. And I’m going to spend his money on whatever I decide. Because it’s mine.”
Three nights later, at 11:14 on a Tuesday, my phone buzzed with an email. From Chloe Hobbes. Subject: Re: Timeline.
It took me three seconds to realize it wasn’t meant for me. Our names sat next to each other in her contacts, and she’d hit the wrong one.