I came home from the funeral to tell my parents and sister that my husband had left me $8.5m and 6 Manhattan lofts. When I walked into the house, I overheard my parents talking. What they were saying… made my blood run cold.

They’re accelerating. Patricia took my car keys, changed the Wi-Fi. Voss is coming back tomorrow. How much time does Maggie need?

James responds in under a minute.

She needs eight more days. Hold your ground.

8 days. I can do 8 days.

The phone rings at 9 that night. Unknown number. 845 area code. I almost don’t answer.

“Fay, it’s your aunt Helen.”

I haven’t heard Helen Briggs voice in 8 years. Patricia’s older sister cut off completely after a fight I was never given details about. Growing up, Helen was the aunt who sent birthday cards with $20 bills and handwritten notes. Then one Christmas, she just stopped existing. Patricia said Helen was toxic and jealous and that was the end of it.

“I saw the obituary on Facebook,” Helen says. “Nathan, I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”

“Thank you.” I keep my voice low. Patricia is downstairs watching television.

“Listen to me carefully,” Helen says. “I know what your mother is. She did the same thing to our mother before she died.”

I sit on the edge of the bed.

“What do you mean?”