At my dad’s funeral, my brother said, «She’s just here for the money — dad’s going to cut her off.» Everyone watched the lawyer enter, holding a USB. My dad’s face appeared on the screen and said three words…

I was there to finish it. The Moore family home hadn’t changed. Same white columns, same red brick, same ivy curling up the porch like it was choking something beneath.

But stepping through the front door after 10 years felt like walking into a freezer. Cold. Sterile.

Silent in all the wrong ways. The guests had already begun to gather. Cousins, old neighbors, a few business partners.

I recognized most of the faces, though none of them looked at me directly. Their conversations dropped to whispers when I entered the room, but I could feel every sideways glance like a pinprick to the skin. Lindsay stood near the fireplace, swirling, white wine in a crystal glass like it was a celebration, not a funeral.

Mark leaned casually beside her, one hand tucked into his blazer pocket, the other holding a matching glass of red. They looked more like hosts at a cocktail party than children mourning their father. When they saw me enter with Caleb, Mark’s mouth twisted into a grin.

Well, this won’t take long, he said, loud enough for half the room to hear. She got cut out years ago. A few people chuckled uncomfortably.

Others turned away like they’d just remembered something very important on the far wall. I didn’t respond. There was nothing to say.

I kept my coat on, even though the fire was crackling. Caleb stayed close to my side, his small fingers clutched tightly around mine. He didn’t say a word, but I could feel his eyes scanning the room, watching every movement, reading the tension the way only a child who’s lived through silence and storm knows how.

We took a seat near the back of the parlor, far from the gnaw, hearth and the wine. I glanced around, soaking in the framed photos that still lined the walls, Lindsay in college, Mark on a boat, family vacations to Hilton Head. Not a single picture of me, not even from when we were kids.

I wasn’t surprised. I’d been erased with precision. Lindsay caught my eye and smiled, not a kind smile, a territorial one, like I’d stepped into her kingdom uninvited.

You can sit if you want, Rachel, she said sweetly, but don’t expect a chapter. I gave her nothing. Caleb looked up at me then, and I saw it in his face, not fear, not confusion.

Focus. As if he was waiting, like something important hadn’t happened yet, and somehow I knew he was right. The room fell into an awkward hush when the front door creaked open again.

Thomas Dawson stepped in like a man who knew exactly what kind of mess he was walking into. Same crisp gray suit, same leather briefcase, but this time he carried something else too, a small cedar box, polished smooth and clutched tight under one arm. Lindsay barely looked up from her wine.

Mark glanced at his watch like he had somewhere. Better to be. Thank you all for being here, Mr. Dawson said, his voice low but commanding.

Per Mr. Moore’s instructions, we’ll begin with a video message before moving on to the formal reading. The air in the room shifted, tightened. A video? Lindsay scoffed, already irritated.

Can’t we just get to the will? We… all know what it says. Mark nodded. Yeah, let’s not drag this out…