“What did you do?”
“I reminded him that signatures and dates exist for a reason.”
That answer sounded exactly like Connor, which made Sarah suspicious, but she let it go.
“How much money?” she asked again.
Connor nodded toward the page.
Sarah turned it over.
She stopped breathing for a moment.
The amount was not a fantasy fortune.
It would not buy mansions or private planes.
But it was enough to change the mathematics of Sarah’s life.
Enough to clear overdue bills.
Enough to pay for the medical tests she had postponed.
Enough to build the savings account Thomas had once talked about starting for his daughter.
Enough that Gracie would not need to count pennies at a grocery counter tomorrow.
Sarah pushed the paper away.
“This belongs to Gracie.”
“Yes.”
“Then it stays hers.”
Connor nodded immediately.
“I already arranged for an independent attorney to explain the options.
Independent means not mine.
You decide nothing tonight.”
Sarah stared at him.
“You arranged that already?”
“I made a phone call.”
“You make terrifyingly efficient phone calls.”
“That is something Thomas also complained about.”
She laughed through the tears gathering in her eyes.
Then she became serious.
“This doesn’t erase four years, Connor.”
“I know.”
“You can’t pay your way out of guilt.”
“I know.”
“And I don’t need a man showing up here deciding he is responsible for rescuing us.”
Connor looked toward Gracie’s room.
“No.”
He met Sarah’s eyes.
“But Thomas was my friend, and I abandoned the people he loved because staying away was easier than admitting I didn’t know how to stand beside you after he died.”
Sarah said nothing.
Connor continued.
“I can’t fix that.
I can only stop doing it.”
The next morning, Sarah went to the hospital for the tests she had delayed.
Connor did not accompany her until she asked.
That mattered.
He sat with Gracie in the waiting area while Sarah disappeared behind a set of double doors.
Gracie had brought the purple notebook from the refrigerator.
She opened it across her knees.
“What are you doing?” Connor asked.
“Making a new list.”
He leaned slightly closer.
At the top, in uneven six-year-old handwriting, she had drawn pictures beside the words she knew how to spell.
Soap.
Crayons.
Bananas.
Then she drew a crooked circle.
