When he died six years earlier, I attended a tiny funeral in Maine.
He left me an old watch and a letter telling me to build a quiet life.
That was it.
Or so I thought.
Martin continued.
“The payments you believed were mortgage payments were deposited into the trust as maintenance contributions. The house itself has never been marital property.”
Derek blinked.
Claire said nothing.
I stared at her.
“You knew?”
Her eyes filled with something.
Not remorse.
Fear.
“How long?”
“Cole—”
“How long?”
She swallowed.
mortgage for fourteen years.”
Martin nodded.
“You have.”
“To who?”
“Windlass.”
I looked down.
The mortgage company I had been paying all
those years was a servicing subsidiary.
My uncle, Robert Mercer, had been a strange man.
Quiet.
