Chapter 1 - TEN MINUTES OF AIR CONDITIONING
Blaire Morgan had been home for nine minutes when Edith switched off the air conditioner.
Miami in August had followed Blaire inside.
Her dusty-rose blouse was damp between her shoulder blades. Her hair, wet from a sudden evening storm, stuck against her neck as she sat on the edge of the bedroom trying to remove her shoes.
Then the ceiling fan stopped.
The air vent went silent.
Blaire looked toward the thermostat.
Seventy-eight.
Then eighty.
She heard the electrical-panel door close in the hallway.
“Edith?”
Her mother-in-law appeared carrying the white AC remote.
“Were you running this again?”
“I turned it on ten minutes ago.”
“You weren’t here all day.”
“I was working.”
Edith’s mouth tightened.
“Exactly.”
Jeremy entered behind his mother.
He had changed out of his office clothes into a light-blue shirt with the sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms.
He looked amused.
Blaire looked at him.
“Your mother flipped the breaker.”
Jeremy shrugged.
“Mom thinks the power bill is ridiculous.”
“I pay the power bill.”
Edith stepped closer.
“You pay nothing in this house that didn’t come from my son first.”
Blaire stared.
That particular lie had been growing for almost two years.
Usually she ignored it.
Tonight she was too tired.
“Turn it back on.”
Edith grabbed a fistful of Blaire’s wet hair.
The shock came before the pain.
Then Edith jammed the hard plastic remote against the side of Blaire’s head and forced her downward.
“Lazy women don’t get air.”
Blaire caught herself against the mattress.
“Get off me.”
Jeremy remained by the dresser.
Watching.
Smiling slightly.
Not enough to look monstrous if anyone asked later.
Enough that Blaire saw it.
Edith yanked her hair backward.
“This house isn’t yours.”
Blaire’s hand slid across the bed.
Past the water glass.
Past the dinner plate Jeremy had left there that morning.
To her beige handbag.
She knocked Edith’s hand away.
Hard.
Then pulled the bag against her chest.
Edith recoiled.
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
Blaire opened the handbag.
Jeremy stopped smiling.
She removed a folded document.
Not something she had carried for dramatic effect.
Her attorney had emailed her a certified copy that afternoon after Blaire discovered a title inquiry she did not recognize.
She unfolded the first page.
Edith laughed.
“What is that supposed to prove?”
Blaire held it between them.
“I own this house.”
Edith froze.
Jeremy did not.
He moved immediately.
“Put that away, now.”
Blaire looked at him.
That was the wrong reaction.
If he believed the deed was meaningless, he should have laughed too.
Instead his face had gone pale.
Edith turned.
“Jeremy?”
He reached toward the document.
Blaire pulled it back.
On the second page was the legal description of the Miami property.
On the third was the owner of record.
Blaire Morgan.
Sole owner.
Edith looked from the deed to her son.
“You said my money was in this house.”
Blaire stopped breathing.
May you like
Jeremy closed his eyes.
And suddenly the air conditioning was no longer the most important thing Edith had been lied to about.
