Leo, the eldest, still lived in the carriage house. At forty-two, he managed the estate’s failing orchard, wore his father’s boots, and spoke in grunts. He hadn’t married. He hadn’t traveled. He’d simply waited —for what, no one knew. His younger sister, Celeste, noticed the way Leo’s hands shook when Harold mentioned “the codicil.”
“I know.”
Leo’s face went white. The tenant was his own daughter, Maya—a girl Arthur had refused to acknowledge because she was born out of wedlock. Leo had raised her in secret, and she now lived in the carriage house rent-free, studying botany at the local college. Evicting her meant losing the only person who still spoke to him without pity.
“And I’m not coming back to that house.”
“Sam,” Celeste said. “I need to tell you something about the will.”