“Mommy! I made a drawing!”

She handed me a piece of paper covered in bright green and blue crayon scribbles.

“It’s our new house,” she said proudly.

“It looks beautiful, sweetie,” I said, holding her close.

Julian walked past us, stopping to look at the drawing in my hand.

“A very solid foundation,” he murmured, a rare smile touching his lips.

He continued up the stairs to his study, his steps lighter than they had been in weeks.

Margaret appeared from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron.

“Dinner is in ten minutes,” she said.

“And the lawyer called.”

“The final papers for the trust have been filed with the state.”

She looked at me, her eyes conveying the unspoken significance of the news.

Emma was secure.

No matter what happened to the Mercer name, my daughter was safe.

“Thank you, Margaret,” I said.

“Go wash your hands,” she replied, though her voice lacked its usual bite.

That night, after Emma was asleep, I went down to the conservatory.

The room was quiet, the glass walls showing the dark, vast expanse of Lake Michigan.