The bank was cold. That's what I remember most. The marble floors. The air conditioning set too high. I sat in a chair by the window and waited for Raymond Voss.

Diana had told me his name. She said he was the kind of clerk who still believed the system was supposed to work. That he'd print records if you asked the right way.

I didn't know the right way. I just knew I couldn't stop seeing that notification. Eight hundred thousand dollars. Recipient account ending 4471.

Raymond was younger than I expected. Maybe thirty. He had kind eyes and a tie that didn't quite match his shirt. He sat across from me and folded his hands on the desk.

"Mrs. Meyer. What can I help you with?"

I slid the paper across to him. The account number I'd written down in shaking letters at three in the morning. "I need the transaction history for this account."

He looked at it. Then at me. "This is a joint account?"

"My husband's name is on it."

That wasn't a lie. It also wasn't the truth. But Raymond's fingers were already moving across the keyboard.

The printer hummed. Three pages came out. He handed them to me without looking at them.

"I hope you find what you need," he said quietly.

I took them to a chair in the lobby. My hands were shaking so hard the pages rattled.

The first line was the date. November 14th. Three weeks ago.

The second line was the amount. $800,000.00.

The third line was the source account. Anderson wrongful death settlement. Estate of Grady and Willa Anderson.

The fourth line was the recipient. Jaliyah Flores. Memo: Property purchase. 1500 Western Ave, Unit 2804.

I read it four times.

Then I read it again.

The settlement. The money from my parents' accident. The money that was supposed to be mine. The money that was supposed to mean something.

Garrett had taken it.

He'd taken it and given it to her.

To buy a condo.

My parents died and my husband bought his mistress a home with their lives.

The pages slipped from my hands. I heard them hit the floor. I couldn't pick them up. My arms wouldn't move.

Someone asked if I was okay. A security guard maybe. Or another customer. I couldn't tell. The voice was far away.

I sat on that marble floor for twenty minutes. People stepped around me. No one stopped.

I don't remember standing up. I don't remember walking to my car. I don't remember the drive home.

I just remember unlocking the door and seeing Garrett at the kitchen counter. He was eating cereal. He looked up when I came in.

"You're back early," he said.

I set my purse down. My voice came out steady. I don't know how. "We need to talk about the settlement."

He went still. Just for a second. Then he took another bite. "What about it?"

"Where is it?"

"It's handled."

"Handled how?"

"Eve." He set the bowl down. "This is complicated financial stuff. You don't need to worry about it."

"It was my parents' money."

"It was a settlement. There are taxes. Fees. Legal holds. It's not like they just hand you a check."

"So where is it now?"

His jaw tightened. "In an account."

"Which account?"

"Jesus Christ, Eve, what is this? You want a full audit?"

"I want to know where my parents' settlement went."

He stood up fast. The stool scraped across the floor. "You want to know? Fine. It went where it needed to go. To cover things. To keep us afloat. You think this apartment pays for itself?"

"You bought Jaliyah a condo."

The air left the room.

Garrett stared at me. His face went white. Then red.

"Who told you that?"

"No one had to tell me. I saw the records."

His hand moved fast. I thought he was going to hit me again. But he grabbed his keys instead. "You went to the bank. You went behind my back."

"You stole from my dead parents."

"I didn't steal anything. That money was joint property. Marital assets. I had every legal right—"

"You had no right."

He stepped closer. His voice dropped. "You don't know what you're talking about. You don't know what I've had to do to keep this family together. The sacrifices I've made. And you're going to stand there and accuse me—"

"Get out."

Georgina's voice came from the hallway. She was holding a glass. Bourbon, probably. Her eyes were bright and mean.

"Both of you. Shut up. I can't hear myself think."

Garrett turned to her. "Mom. Not now."

"Don't 'not now' me." She walked into the kitchen. She was unsteady. The glass sloshed. "I've been listening to this girl whine for three years. My son. My parents. My money." She turned to me. "Your parents are dead, Eve. They're not coming back. And you standing here crying about it isn't going to change that."

I looked at her. I didn't say anything.

She smiled. It wasn't kind. "You want to know what I think? I think they're better off. They don't have to watch their daughter embarrass herself anymore."

She turned. She walked to the shelf by the window. The one where I kept the urns.

Two small brass containers. My father's name engraved on one. My mother's on the other.

Georgina picked them up.

"Mom." Garrett's voice was sharp. "Put those down."

She looked at him. Then at me. Then she walked to the balcony door.

"No." I moved fast. But not fast enough.

Georgina slid the door open. The cold air rushed in. She stepped out onto the balcony. Twenty-eight floors up. The city lights spread below like broken glass.

She held the urns over the railing.

"Stop talking about the dead," she said. "And let them go."

She let go.

I screamed. I don't remember the sound. I just remember my throat burning.

I ran. Past Garrett. Out the door. Down the hallway. The elevator was too slow. I took the stairs. Twenty-eight flights. My bare feet slapped against concrete. I fell twice. I got up. I kept running.

I hit the ground floor and shoved through the lobby doors. The rain was coming down hard. I didn't feel it.

I found them on the sidewalk.

The brass was dented. Cracked. One lid had come off. The ashes were scattered across the wet pavement. Gray and white and washing away in the rain.

I dropped to my knees.

I tried to scoop them up. My hands were shaking. The rain was too fast. The ashes turned to paste. They slipped through my fingers and ran into the gutter.

I pressed my palms flat against the concrete. I could feel the grit. The cold. The water.

I couldn't feel my parents.

They were gone.

People walked past. A couple with an umbrella. A man on his phone. No one stopped.

I knelt there in the rain with my hands black and empty, and something inside me that had been bending for three years finally snapped clean.

I stood up slowly.

I looked up at the building. Twenty-eight floors. I couldn't see our balcony from here. But I knew it was there.

I knew she was there.

I knew he was there.

I wiped my hands on my jeans. The ashes smeared. I didn't care.

I walked back inside. I didn't take the stairs this time. I took the elevator. I watched the numbers climb. My face in the metal doors looked like someone else.

Someone I didn't know yet.

Someone I was about to become.

The doors opened on the twenty-eighth floor. I walked down the hallway. I opened the door to our apartment.

Garrett was on the couch. Georgina was pouring another drink. They both looked up when I came in.

I didn't say anything.

I walked past them. Into the bedroom. I closed the door.

I sat on the edge of the bed. My hands were still black. I looked at them for a long time.

Then I pulled out my phone. I found the number Diana had given me. The lawyer. Corbin Larson.

I typed four words.

I need your help.

I hit send.

And I waited for the war to begin.