“We fight the trust,” Gareth said, sweating through his shirt, talking fast. “That’s all civil, we hire the best litigators, we tie it up in probate court for years, these things drag on forever, half the time the money runs out before—”

“And when the toxicology comes back?” She was very close to his face. “When it comes back positive, Gareth? What’s your clever plan for that?”

He didn’t answer at first. His eyes had drifted past her shoulder, across the garage, to where the orderly — Brandon — had emerged from a stairwell and was walking toward the elevators, alone, his back to them, unaware.

“Then the orderly signs a waiver,” Gareth said slowly, “and renounces the trust, and walks away with nothing.” His voice had dropped into something quieter and uglier.

“Or he doesn’t live long enough to inherit a dime of it. One or the other. Either way the money comes to us.”

Demi followed his gaze to the young man crossing the garage, and did not tell him he was wrong.