“I will prove to every judge in this state that you are completely unfit to hold your father’s legacy,” Evan said, his phone screen glowing in the dim light of the dining room.

The blue light from his screen cast sharp, cold shadows across his cheekbones.

He looked like a stranger, though I had slept beside him for seven years.

The silence in Sloane’s dining room was heavy, smelling of expensive truffles and damp coats.

“You really think those will hold up in court, Evan?” Lydia asked, her voice flat and steady.

She did not step back, nor did she look at me for reassurance.

“They are official medical evaluations, Lydia,” Evan said, his tone dripping with false pity.

“Signed by board-certified psychiatrists,” he added, turning the screen slightly so the light hit my eyes.

“From a time when my wife could barely name the day of the week.”

Vivian reached out, her manicured fingers brushing the sleeve of Evan’s wool coat.

“It is for her own good, Evan,” Vivian murmured, her eyes fixed on me.

“We all saw how she deteriorated after the funeral.”