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.

I close the door, fold the form, and slide it into my suitcase. Another piece of evidence. Another 48 hours survived.

Maggie needs six more days. The gala is an 8. I just have to keep breathing.

Kloe drives up from the city on Saturday. She brings Ryan.

Ryan Alcott is 29, a software engineer from a normal family in New Jersey. He shakes my hand at the front door and says, “I’m really sorry about Nathan Fay. He was a good guy.”

He means it. I can tell because his eyes don’t slide away when he says it.

Patricia makes lunch. It’s almost domestic, almost convincing. Gerald carves a roast. Kloe talks about centerpieces. Ryan asks me about the museum.

Then Ryan steps outside to take a work call and the mask drops.

Chloe leans across the kitchen island.

“Look,” she says, “just cooperate. Mom’s doing this for all of us.”

“All of us?”

“Do you know how much my wedding costs? I can’t keep putting it on credit cards.”

“How much are you in debt, Chloe?”

She waves a hand.

“That’s not the point. The point is Ryan doesn’t know about the debt.”

She lowers her voice.

“And he definitely doesn’t need to know about any of this. So, just sign the papers and everything goes back to normal.”

“Normal?”