I stood at the top of the stairs and watched her march into the formal living room, her beige trench coat dripping rainwater onto the Persian rug.

Graham emerged from his study, his face pale and his eyes rimmed with red.

He had not shaved, and his white button-down shirt was wrinkled at the elbows.

“In here, Mom,” he said, his voice flat and exhausted.

I walked down the stairs slowly, my heels clicking rhythmically against the wood.

In my hand, I carried a thick manila envelope.

Gloria turned when she heard me enter the living room, her eyes narrowing as she looked me up and down.

“Jocelyn,” she said, her tone dripping with its usual cold condescension. “Go make some coffee. Strong. And leave us.”

“I don’t think so, Gloria,” I said, sitting down in one of the cream-colored linen armchairs.

She blinked, surprised by the tone of my voice, but she quickly turned her attention back to her son.

“Graham, tell me this is a joke,” Gloria demanded, slamming her designer handbag onto the glass coffee table. “The bank froze the trust accounts this morning.”