You have thirty minutes to collect your personal belongings, and by personal belongings, I mean the cheap clothes you brought up from the east wing.

Anything bought with my father’s money stays here.” I looked at this man, at the ruthless angle of his jaw, the cold arrogance in his eyes, the exact look Harrison had described in his letter.

For two years, I had watched Julian visit his dying father once every three months, for precisely eight minutes, to ask about tax shelters while Harrison lay hooked to an IV.

I had watched Beatrice complain about the smell of antiseptic while her father struggled to sit up.