His voice was low, but not calm.

I could hear the tremor under the anger.

I was sitting in my lawyer’s conference room with a pen still in my hand.

Across from me, Howard Pierce, my attorney of thirty-two years, folded the signed papers into a neat stack and slid them into a blue folder.

He didn’t look surprised.

Howard had seen rich people lose empires, siblings sue each other, and children reveal exactly what kind of adults they were once money got close enough to touch.

“I’m not sure what you mean,” I said.