Then I looked at Rosalind.
“You can stay,” I said, my voice cold, steady.
Naomi’s eyes went wide. “Mom—”
I held up my hand.
“But from this moment until night twenty-five, you will move into the bedroom directly across from mine. My bedroom door will remain locked at all times. Warren will hold your passport, your driver’s license, and any other identification you have.”
Rosalind stared at me.
“If you leave this house,” I said, “even to step onto the front porch, the trust will be closed immediately, and all of you will lose everything.”
I stepped closer.
“If I feel unsafe for even a moment, the trust closes. If you make any attempt to access my room, the trust closes. If you contact anyone outside this house without my permission, the trust closes.”
I paused.
“You’re not staying because I pity you,” I said. “You’re staying because your father bet my life on the chance that you still have a soul worth saving. So prove it.”
Warren cleared his throat. “I’ll need your identification now.”
Rosalind’s hands shook as she pulled her wallet from her purse, handed her driver’s license to Warren, then her passport. Warren placed them in his briefcase.
“I’ll hold these,” Warren said, “until the trust conditions are satisfied or violated.”
Rosalind nodded.
I turned to my other daughters. “If any of you are uncomfortable with this arrangement, you’re free to leave. But if you leave, all of you forfeit the inheritance.”
None of them moved.
“Good,” I said.
“Rosalind, move your things to the upstairs guest room across from mine tonight. Warren will stay until you’re settled.”
Rosalind stood slowly.
“Mom, I’m so sorry.”
“I don’t want your apology,” I said. “I want seven more nights of proof that your father wasn’t wrong about you.”
She nodded and walked upstairs.
The other four daughters sat in stunned silence.
I looked at Warren. “You’ll come back tomorrow night.”
“Yes,” he said.
I walked upstairs, locked my bedroom door, checked the lock twice, then sat on the edge of my bed and exhaled.
Seven more nights.
Seven more nights of sleeping with a chair against my door.
Seven more nights of gambling with my life.
But my husband had believed she could be saved.
And I had to try.
I didn’t expect the knocking.
It came at two in the morning. Soft but insistent, pulling me out of a sleep I hadn’t earned.
I sat up in bed, heart pounding, and stared at the door.
“Mom.”
Rosalind’s voice.
I didn’t move. I wasn’t sure I wanted to open that door. Downstairs earlier that night, I’d watched her face when Warren read letter eighteen. I’d seen the shock, the denial, the tears. I’d also seen the truth.
She knocked again.
“Mom, please.”
I stood, walked to the door, and opened it.
She stood in the hallway in wrinkled clothes, her eyes red and swollen. She looked exhausted. Broken.
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