The color drained from her cheeks, leaving her makeup looking like a mask of grey clay.

“That’s impossible,” she whispered.

“The beneficiary was a corporation registered to Clara Thomas,” I said. “That was your grandmother’s maiden name, wasn’t it?”

She didn’t answer. She couldn’t.

Her chest rose and fell in rapid, shallow breaths.

“Maya?”

I turned to see Chloe standing behind us, holding a dripping plastic cup.

She had noticed the tension and had walked over from the pool.

“What’s going on?” Chloe asked, her brow furrowing. “Who is Clara Thomas?”

“Ask Mom,” I said.

My father noticed the huddle and walked over, his glass of scotch sweating in his hand.

“Is everything all right here?” he asked, his voice booming with forced authority.

“Arthur,” my mother whispered, her voice cracking. “She knows.”

My father’s expression changed instantly.

The jovial host vanished, replaced by the cold, calculating businessman I had feared my entire childhood.

He stepped closer, effectively blocking us from the view of the remaining guests.

“Go inside, Maya,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “We will discuss this in the study.”