I came home from the funeral to tell my parents and sister that my husband had left me $8.5m and 6 Manhattan lofts. When I walked into the house, I overheard my parents talking. What they were saying… made my blood run cold.

“Give me 10 days,” Maggie says. “I’ll pull the 990 forms and compare them with whatever financial disclosures the church has on file. If there’s a discrepancy, I’ll find it.”

10 days. The church gala, the annual fundraiser where Gerald delivers the treasurer’s report, is in 12.

I drive back to Rididgewood with a plan I didn’t have this morning. Stay in the house. Act griefstricken. Let Patricia and Gerald believe I’m falling apart. Give Maggie time. Give James time. Don’t let anyone take my phone.

Patricia is in the kitchen when I walk in.

“Where did you go, honey?”

“For a drive,” I say. “Nathan used to take me on drives when I was upset.”

She smiles, satisfied, almost tender. Her obedient daughter still broken, still manageable.

I go upstairs. I lock the door and I stop hoping my mother will change. I start planning for who she actually is.

The next morning, my car keys are gone.

I find Patricia at the kitchen table reading the Ridgewood Gazette, coffee in hand.

“I moved your keys to the drawer,” she says without looking up. “You shouldn’t be driving right now, Fay. Not in this state.”