The trust fund.

The planned truck.

The things he’d promised without asking whether we wanted them.

That evening, Eleanor invited me to tea.

Her small Tudor house smelled of lemon polish.

She wore a cream blouse and the same double strand of pearls.

After discussing the catering costs, she leaned forward.

“Oliver tells me Sarah’s trust is still tied up in administrative restrictions.”

“The trust is functioning as intended.”

Eleanor frowned.