Margaret stepped away from her brother.
“Richard?”
He lifted both hands.
“It’s standard asset protection.”
“For what asset?” I asked.
Nobody answered.
Clare did.
“Me.”
She looked at Dad.
“The trust gives him control over distributions until I’m forty-five.”
Gerald’s voice became hard.
“Because you’ve never understood money.”
Clare laughed once.
“You mean because money is the only language you know how to use when people stop obeying you.”
A few guests lowered their eyes.
Dad looked toward me.
Suddenly, impossibly, he tried to smile.
“Evelyn.”
The sound of my name in his mouth made my skin crawl.
“You’ve always been practical.”
Fifteen years.
Forty-three stolen letters.
One suitcase on a porch.
And now I was practical.
Because the room knew my rank.
I stood.
The ballroom became still.
Dad’s expression brightened slightly.
He thought I was coming to help him.
I walked past him.
