The number was four hundred and twenty thousand. Delphine said it the way people say a weather forecast, and then explained that Wyatt had personally guaranteed a construction loan on a development that stalled, and that the lender had begun looking at assets. I let the silence sit long enough for everyone to hear the fireplace ticking. Then I asked one question. Whose idea was it to come here. Nobody answered, which was its own answer, until Marlee said, quietly, that it had been Rosalind’s.

That was when it came apart. My grandmother had not driven three hours to see the house. She had come because Wyatt’s collapsed development was on land she had gifted him in 2019, land that had been in our family since her father bought it, and the lender would take it. She wanted me to buy the note. She had spent twelve years telling that family I was a failure who played with tools, and she had come to my door because I was the only person in the room who could write the cheque.