“Will you need checks, Mrs. Hayes?”
“No. Just a debit card.”
“Of course. It will arrive in seven to ten business days.”
Seven to ten days.
I had been spending my entire life in seven-to-ten-day increments, waiting for paychecks, waiting for bills to clear, waiting for Daniel to come home from work. Now I had five million dollars, and I still had to wait for a debit card.
I almost laughed.
That afternoon I stood outside 785 Park Avenue for the first time.
The building was limestone and glass, with a doorman in a gray uniform. He opened the door before I reached it.
“Good afternoon, ma’am.”
“I’m Margaret Hayes. I own 18B.”
His expression did not change.
“Of course, Mrs. Hayes. Welcome home.”
Home.
The elevator was mirrored and silent. It opened directly into the penthouse.
No hallway. Just a private vestibule with a single door.
I used the key Mr. Brennan had given me.
The apartment was empty.
Hardwood floors. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Light pouring in from three directions. The living room overlooked Central Park. I could see the reservoir, the trees, the joggers below like ants. It smelled like cedar and dust.
I walked through slowly.
Three bedrooms. Four bathrooms. A kitchen with marble counters and appliances still wrapped in plastic. Daniel had never furnished it.
