I turned and walked down the quiet hallway toward the kitchen, the numbers still looping in my mind.
My mother, Beatrice, was standing by the marble island, adjusting a crystal vase that held a dozen white roses.
“Eighty dollars for these,” she murmured, her voice dripping with forced sweetness as she brushed an imaginary speck of lint from her green silk dress. “And they will probably be dead by Tuesday.”
She did not look at me, her fingers busy straightening a single stem.
“Your father is working very hard, Emma,” she said.
“I know,” I said. “He just signed the new loan papers.”
Beatrice paused, her hand hovering over the white petals.
“He has to,” she said softly. “The estate demands a certain standard. Your eighteenth birthday is next month, Emma.”
She turned her sharp gaze to me, her eyes scanning my face as if searching for something she had lost.
“We have spent so much securing your future,” she continued, her voice dropping to a low, rhythmic purr. “It is only right that we look after each other when the time comes.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
