I leaned back.
“My daughter died last night.”
Miriam froze.
“What?”
I told her.
Not everything.
Just enough.
By the time I finished, she had removed her glasses and was crying.
“I’m so sorry.”
I looked down at the trust.
“So am I.”
Then I placed Julian’s documents beside it.
“But now I need you to help me understand what Arthur has been doing.”
The next seventy-two hours were divided between burying my daughter and dismantling my husband’s life.
That sentence still makes me feel monstrous.
But grief does not arrive in orderly categories.
I could choose flowers for Chloe’s coffin at nine in the morning and review wire transfers at eleven.
I could cry until I vomited, wash my face, and join a secure call with Sterling’s audit committee.
I could hold Mr.
Button against my chest with one hand and sign legal instructions with the other.
