It is tiny. Barely there.
But I see it, and once seen it cannot be unseen. The baby stirs in her arms, making a soft fussy noise, and for the first time she looks less like a triumphant replacement and more like a woman who walked onto the wrong stage thinking it was a coronation.
Harlan lowers the letter and looks directly at Ethan.
“Margaret instructed that I next read the dispositive provisions of the estate.”
He reaches for the formal will.
There is a brittle hush in the room now, the hush of dry branches just before lightning makes decisions.
“Margaret Caldwell leaves her jewelry collection to the Saint Louis Museum of Decorative Arts,” he says. “Her charitable bequests, as outlined in Appendix B, remain unchanged. Her residence on Lindell Boulevard, together with contents specified in Schedule Three, is transferred to the Caldwell Family Foundation.”
Ethan interrupts.
“And the company shares?”
His voice sounds strained.
Too fast.
Too sharp.
He asked the question before dignity had time to dress.
Harlan glances at him.
“We are getting there.”
The reply is polite, but its edges are steel.