him for it — she hadn’t. But some scared, practical part of her had quietly been counting on the fact that his money might finally make her feel safe in a way she had never been able to afford on her own.
Arthur saw it on her face.
He had always seen too much.
“But I’m giving you exactly what you wanted,” he whispered.
Outside in the hallway, his daughter Deborah’s voice sharpened. “We should be in there. That woman isn’t family.”
Arthur pushed the box into Camille’s hands.
“Open it after my funeral,” he said. “Promise me.”
“Arthur—”
“Promise.”
So she did.
Two days later, her husband died.
And after his funeral, when everyone was certain she had finally lost, she opened that box and found proof that Arthur had understood her better than anyone in her life ever had.
