It felt right to hand the keys to someone who wanted to build a life, not exploit it.

On the day of the closing, I received the final wire transfer in my bank account.

The number was modest compared to what Scott had dreamed of inheriting, but it was mine.

It was clean, untouched by greed or deceit.

I packed my remaining clothes into my car and drove away from the suburbs.

I rented a small, bright apartment near the city park, close to my office.

It had large windows that let in the morning light and a balcony where I could grow herbs.

One evening, a month later, Rachel came over for dinner.

She brought a bottle of white wine and some Italian takeout.

We sat on my small balcony, listening to the distant sound of children playing in the park.

“Have you heard anything about Scott?” she asked, pouring the wine into two glasses.

“A little,” I said. “Jerome sent me a final update on the probate case last week.”

“And?”

“The estate remains frozen,” I said.

“The lenders filed a lawsuit against him for fraud.”