“Did you sign a voluntary property transfer on March fourteenth?”
“How did you—”
“I have a contact at Whitmore and Associates. They’re a cut-rate firm. Vanessa hired them because they don’t ask questions.”
He opened the folder.
“The document you signed transfers the house on Maple Avenue to your son, free and clear. You waived all claims. Your sister witnessed it.”
My hands tightened in my lap. “I didn’t have a choice.”
“Vanessa changed the locks. I know. That’s illegal, by the way. You could contest it.”
He paused.
“But you won’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re smarter than they think. And because what Daniel left you makes that house look like pocket change.”
He slid a single sheet of paper across the desk.
“This is a summary. The details are in the safe-deposit box. But I thought you should see the numbers first.”
I looked down.
Estate of Daniel Jacob Hayes. Confidential summary.
Primary assets held in irrevocable trust. Margaret Louise Hayes, sole beneficiary.
Investment portfolio. Offshore accounts. Real property, 785 Park Avenue, Penthouse 18B. Cash reserves.
Total estimated value: $28 million.
I stared at the page.
Twenty-eight million dollars.
Daniel and I had lived in a house worth less than a million. We drove a 2011 Honda. We shopped at Stop & Shop. I clipped coupons. I saved rubber bands in a kitchen drawer.
