I said, “Fine.” Then I set my house key on the kitchen counter, packed one suitcase, and drove five hours into the mountains in the dark. I expected a rotten cabin. Instead, my headlights found fresh cedar siding, a new metal roof, and a porch light glowing on a timer. Inside, the bedroom held an easel, new brushes, and a window facing the valley.

The leather notebook lay on the bed with my name pressed into the cover. On the first page, beneath his line telling me to open the sealed section, Gordon had taped the final pages shut. I cut them open with shaking hands. His handwriting was weaker there, but clear. The penthouse costs nine thousand dollars a month in fees and taxes. Brandon can’t carry it. I left the money for it with you. Whether they keep it is your decision now.