“I . . .” I rack my brain for something to say and find nothing. Then some dam inside me breaks, and the words explode out. “Helena was my family. I know you don’t get on with your family, and . . . maybe you hated her, I don’t know. Granted, she could be really grumpy and nosy, but she . . . she loved me. And she was the only real home I ever had.” I dare to glance at Liam, half expecting a sneer of derision. A snarky comment about Helena that will make me want to punch him again. But he’s staring at me, attentive, and I force myself to look away and continue before I can change my mind. “I think she knew that. I think maybe that’s why she left me this house, so that I’d have some kind of . . . of something. Even after she was gone.” My voice breaks on the last word, and now I’m crying. Not full-on bawling like when I watch The Lion King or the first ten minutes of Up, but quiet, sparse, implacable tears that I have no hope of stopping. “I know you probably see me as some . . . proletarian usurper who’s come to take over your family fortune, and believe me, I get it.” I wipe my cheek with the back of my hand. My voice is rapidly losing heat. “But you have to understand that while you’re living here because you’re trying to prove some point, or for some sort of pissing contest, this pile of bricks means the world to me, and . . .”

“I didn’t hate Helena.”

I look up in surprise. “What?”

“I didn’t hate Helena.” His eyes are on his half-made omelet, still sizzling on the stove.

“Oh.”

“Every summer she’d leave California for a few weeks. Where did you think she went?”

“I . . . she just said she spent her summers with family. I always assumed that . . .”

“Here, Mara. She came here. Slept in the room next to yours.” Liam’s voice is clipped, but his expression softens into something I’ve never seen before. A faint smile. “She claimed it was to check up on my world-pollution plans. Mostly, she nagged me about my life choices in between meeting with old friends. And she kicked my ass at chess a lot.” He scowls. “I am positive she cheated, but I could never prove it.”

“I . . .” He must be making this up. Surely. “She never mentioned you.”

His eyebrow lifts. “She never mentioned you. And yet you were in her will.”

“But . . . But, wait. Hang on a minute. At the funeral . . . I thought you didn’t get along with your family?”

“Oh, I don’t. They’re pretentious, judgmental, performative assholes—and I’m quoting Helena, here. But she was different, and I got on with her. I cared about her. A lot.” He clears his throat. “I’m not sure where you got the idea that I didn’t.”