I walked upstairs without answering. Brittany laughed — actually laughed — and called after me, “She’s going to get the pen!” Marcus told her to hush, said I always came around eventually. I came back down with the manila folder and laid it gently on the island between us. “Before I sign anything,” I said, “you should probably read what’s already been signed.”
Marcus opened it. His face drained in stages, like someone slowly turning down a dimmer. Inside was Dad’s final will — the real one, notarized eight days before he died, witnessed by his hospice nurse and his attorney. The lake house was mine. The Greenwich property Marcus had been living in rent-free? Also mine, held in trust until Dad confirmed Marcus was “financially responsible.” Dad’s note, in his shaky handwriting, was clipped to the front: “Claire, if he ever asks you to sign anything, give him this instead. I’m sorry I couldn’t say it to his face.”
The second page was the forensic accounting report. Forty-one thousand dollars in GoFundMe donations Marcus had funneled into a joint account with Brittany. Hotel stays in Tulum. A leased Range Rover. A boudoir photography package, itemized.
Brittany snatched the deed off the counter like she could un-print it. “This is a misunderstanding,” she stammered. Marcus just kept staring at the hospice nurse’s signature.
“You have thirty days to vacate the Greenwich house,” I said. “My attorney already filed. The donors are being refunded — by you, personally. The DA’s office has a copy of everything in that folder. I gave them a head start last Tuesday.”
Marcus finally looked up. “Claire, please. I’m your brother.”
I picked up my coffee. “Dad was your father, too. You buried him in a discount casket so you could afford a pool heater.” I opened the front door for them. “Get off my porch. I just finished sanding it.”
Brittany was already crying in the driveway before the door even closed. I locked it, sat down on the floor against the wood, and finally — finally — let myself smile.
