At 35, I married my wealthy 72-year-old boss so my daughter and I wouldn’t end up homeless. After he died, his lawyer looked at me and said, “He prepared this trap specifically for you… and he knew you would fall into it.”

“You’re still behind.”

“I just need more time.”

“You’ve had more time.”

“My husband died.”

There was silence.

Then he said,

“I understand, Nora. But I have bills too.”

When the call ended, I stood in the pantry with my phone pressed against my chest.

I didn’t cry.

I’d already cried enough.

I just stood there.

Then I heard a floorboard creak behind me.

I turned.

Nobody was there.

I opened the pantry door.

The hallway was empty.

I told myself it was nothing.

But somewhere in the house, someone had heard that conversation.

Someone who would remember it.

Someone who had already begun making plans.

A few weeks later, the estate looked different.

Fresh flowers.

Candles.

Soft music.

I walked into the kitchen and frowned.

“Is there a party?”

“No.”

I turned.

Richard stood in the doorway.

He was wearing a dark suit.

He looked nervous.