Chapter 4: Pearls in the Clutch

Three million dollars is a lot of zeroes to hold on a porch.

The lawyer from Winslow Holdings stood two steps below me with his folio against his chest.

He had the patient face of a man who billed by the minute.

"Mrs. Winslow is prepared to forgive the scene at the club," he said.

"You will sign that you were an adopted child of unknown parentage.

You will make no claim on the Winslow name or fortune.

And you will never discuss the family with any person or outlet."

"Forever," I said.

"The word is permanent."

Behind me, I heard Dean's boots shift on the boards.

I looked at the check once.

It would have paid off my student loans, bought me a house, and left enough to live on for years.

I looked at the clause that said I'd never say the word swap, never say Winslow, never speak of the grave.

Then I looked across the yard.

Eight or nine drivers in work boots had come out of the dispatch office with their coffee.

A lawyer in a gray suit is as good as a parade.

Tiernan Sterne stood at the edge of them with his hands in his pockets, watching me.

I tore the check in half.

Then I tore it again.

I tore the six-page agreement the same way, in front of all of them.

Then I handed the pieces back to the lawyer a handful at a time.

"Tell Janet thank you for the offer," I said.

"Tell her I said no."

One of the drivers whistled.

The youngest brother said, "Oh my god," in a worshipful whisper.

The lawyer's face did not move.

"I'll relay that," he said, and his phone began to buzz.

He read the screen, and the color left his face.

He turned it toward me.

It was Kaitlyn's face, live on her account, a small crowd of her friends behind her.

She had been crying.

She was good at crying on cue.

"I didn't want to do this," she said into the camera, "but Mom's pearls are gone."

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