The door was cracked open an inch, letting a thin wedge of yellow light cut across the dark floorboards.
“She has to sign the authorization by noon tomorrow, Charles,” Beatrice’s voice came through the gap, sharp and devoid of the warmth she had used on the terrace. “The bank in Nassau is already holding the draft.”
“Emma will sign whatever we put in front of her,” my father replied, his tone dismissive. “She has no idea how the trust is structured, and she trusts us.”
“She spent too much time with Arthur before he died,” Beatrice said, her voice rising slightly before she caught herself. “He was always whispering in her ear about independence.”
“Arthur is gone, and his estate is ours to manage,” Charles said, the sound of his gold watch clasp clicking in the quiet room. “The bridge loan is due on Monday. If we do not move the six million into the corporate account by then, the Greenwich project defaults, and Bennett Development goes under.”
“And the Nantucket property?” Beatrice asked.
