Chapter 3

At nine the next morning, we were at the county clerk's office. The clerk checked my ID, my DNA test results, and the court authorization, then told us we were missing a joint confirmation from the trustees of the family trust.

The driver went out into the rain to fetch it while we sat in the waiting area.

The number on the screen ticked up one at a time, and the cold white light made everybody look terrible.

Twenty minutes in, Diana's phone went off. She took one look at the screen and knocked over her cup.

My mother's hand was on her shoulder at once. "What is it?"

Diana handed over the phone. On the screen was a photo from Pierce. A few workers were carrying things out of her room. A pink suitcase sat in the middle of the hallway, and a clothes rack lay on its side.

"I only had them move Diana into another room," my father said, frowning. "Sylvia should be moving back into her own room."

Diana looked down, her lashes trembling.

"It's fine. If my things get thrown out, they get thrown out."

My mother grabbed her bag and stood up. The strap slid off the back of the chair and hit the tile. "Who said anything about throwing out your things?"

Lucas got up with her.

I stayed in my chair, not quite following. "You're leaving? Now?"

Diana screamed. She doubled over with both hands pressed to her chest, gasping for air.

The paper cup rolled onto the floor, and water spread across the tile, reflecting her pale face.

Noah was across the room in a second, crouching to check her pulse. Ethan steadied my mother. Lucas went for the car. My father took a call from the office and walked to the window, keeping his voice down.

In under two minutes they were gone with her.

On his way out, Noah pressed the number ticket into my hand. "I'll come back as soon as I'm done."

I looked at him. "How long?"

He hesitated. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

The elevator doors closed.

I stayed where I was and watched the number above the doors drop floor by floor. A minute ago, my family had filled an entire row of chairs. Now it was just me and a thick envelope.

I looked down at the ticket, creased where Noah had gripped it, and the whole scene struck me as familiar and ridiculous.

Every plan for a family portrait ended this way. So did my birthdays. Every time, somebody turned back to tell me "soon," or "right away," or "I'll come back as soon as I'm done."

And I always stayed put, putting the candles away, moving the dinner reservation, and swallowing whatever I had been about to say.

But today was different.

This was the registration they had been promising me for three years.

The clerk had my file in her hands. She asked quietly, "Ms. Warren, do you still want to go ahead?"

I put the ticket in my bag, pulled out a different form, and pushed it across to her.

"If I wanted to withdraw my registration as a beneficiary of the Warren family trust, keep the name I have, and stay at my own address, what would I need to do?"

She looked at the empty seats behind me, then down at her watch.

She handed me a black pen. "If you're filing it yourself, we can process it in fifteen minutes."

I took the pen.

So it turned out that I didn't need anyone's approval to stay out of the Warren family, either.

At two in the afternoon, I had the withdrawal receipt in my hand, still warm off the printer.

I had just stepped out of the office when my phone buzzed in my palm.

It was Mr. Pierce. "Ms. Hart, Mrs. Warren says Diana is too unsettled, so the room change is on hold. Guest Room Three will stay as it is."

I stood under the awning and looked at those three words. Guest Room Three.

Three years ago, when I dragged my suitcase into the Warren estate, Pierce had called it Guest Room Three. They hadn't forgotten to change the name. They had simply never thought of it as my room.

I folded the withdrawal receipt and put it in my bag.

Guest Room Three could stay exactly as it was. I wasn't planning to move back into it anyway.