“And what would you know about domestic anything?” Leo fired back. “You’ve been running from responsibility since you were sixteen.”

“You were protecting yourself,” Maya said from the doorway.

—the youngest, the wild card, the one their father had called “a beautiful accident”—arrived last, smelling of airport whiskey and defiance. He’d been living in Berlin, running a gallery that may or may not have been a money-laundering front. No one asked. No one wanted the answer.

Sam appeared behind her, still in last night’s clothes. He looked at Eleanor, then at Leo, then at Maya.

She wasn’t sure if she believed it yet. But standing there, in the broken aftermath of a hundred old wounds, she thought maybe it could be.

Sam stared at her. “Why?”

Maya’s stomach dropped. “How much?”