“How much she must have loved that. Did you buy her art?”

He flattened his lips.

I wanted to punch him in the mouth. “You support an artist by buying their work.”

“You want money?”

“I’m not here to blackmail you. I’m here because I didn’t want you to die thinking that you got away with what you did without anyone knowing what a piece-of-shit slime you are. I know, and so do others.”

He gaped, his head a hue of purple that reminded me of one of Violet’s paintings.

According to his online bio, he’d never had children. I could have told him that he had a daughter, that I was his granddaughter. I didn’t.

Violet had told him nothing, and I was going to respect her wishes. I left Wertheim without looking back. I was finished with him. I never wanted to think about him again.

Outside, I whispered to the cloudless sky. “I had to come. I hope you don’t mind, Violet.” And I walked away with a spring in my step.

Back at the house, I yelled down to the basement for Sergei. “I’m back!”

Then I sprinted upstairs. As soon as I opened the office door, Lai Fa rushed over, flapping her wings and stretching her neck.

“Miss me?”

I sat at Violet’s desk and lifted her to my lap. She hopped on the table, then walked up my arm, and settled into the crook of my neck. She was a tiny fluff of love, but she made a difference. Almost as if love had no size. Like when you had a candle—no matter how small the flame, you were no longer in the dark.

“I love you too. Let’s work.”

Peep.

I separated my challenges into two categories: Ludington’s business and problems created by the sale of the house falling through. I was good at being methodical. Bram was right. I could do this.

“Let’s tackle the house first.”

I opened the packet of documents I’d received from Bram the first time we’d met and paged through the papers until I found the summary of the mortgage.

Violet had inherited the house from her parents, but she mortgaged it over the years to fund various initiatives in the arts. If Violet believed in a cause, she would do everything she could to help.

The estimated value of the house—the expected sales price once it finally sold—was about the same as the mortgage plus her medical bills, with enough left over for that last-minute NYU scholarship. I emailed the dean and explained that there might be a short delay.

Next, I checked the mortgage. I had sufficient emergency funds to make payments for several months. “The house is great. Right?”

Peep.

“Exactly. Beatriz will find another buyer before we run out of money.”