I was waiting in the living room, standing by the window.
“Mom,” he said, looking around, “whose place is this?”
“Mine.”
He took in the furniture, the view, the space.
“I don’t understand.”
I handed him an envelope.
Inside was a copy of Daniel’s letter from 1985, the summary of the estate, and a single key.
He read in silence.
When he finished, his hands were shaking.
“Twenty-eight million.”
“Twenty-six now,” I said. “I’ve been busy.”
“You’ve had this the whole time? Since March?”
“Yes.”
“And you lived in a motel?”
“I needed to see who you’d become without money. Without Vanessa. Without me bailing you out.”
I took the letter back and folded it carefully.
“Your father left this to me because he knew I’d protect it. Protect you, even from yourself.”
Robert sat down on the couch and covered his face with his hands.
