Chapter 20
Estelle moved out of the Morretti estate at eighty-two.
Cassian reacted as if she announced she was moving onto a fishing boat.
“No.”
She stared.
“That was quick.”
“You live here.”
“Currently.”
“You have staff.”
“I know.”
“Security.”
“Yes.”
“Dr. Weiss is fifteen minutes away.”
“My new place is twelve.”
Cassian stopped.
New place.
Already selected.
“Where?”
“A condominium near Lincoln Park.”
He stared.
“You bought a condo?”
“I am capable of real estate transactions.”
“When?”
“Last month.”
“With whom?”
“My broker.”
“Who reviewed it?”
“Rebecca.”
Cassian turned toward Rebecca.
She was sitting in the library pretending to read.
“You knew?”
“Yes.”
“And didn’t tell me?”
“Not your purchase.”
He hated everyone.
Estelle wanted smaller.
The estate had become too large.
Too many stairs.
Too many rooms tied to memories she did not always want.
Most importantly, too many people around who watched her whenever she moved slowly.
“You told staff not to monitor me,” she said.
“They don’t.”
“They try not to.”
That was different.
A cane near the stairs still caused three heads to turn.
A forgotten appointment produced soft voices.
Nobody intended harm.
Attention itself had become exhausting.
The condominium had one level.
Elevator.
Doorman.
Guest room.
Kitchen large enough for Greta to criticize.
Optional home-care services available through an unrelated company if Estelle ever wanted them.
Cassian reviewed the security report anyway.
Then the building inspection.
Then the emergency response time.
Then the elevators.
Estelle finally took the folder from him.
“Are you moving?”
“No.”
“Then stop selecting my building.”
The move happened in October.
Not secretly.
Not as escape.
Estelle chose furniture.
Kept the old family photograph.
Left half the formal dining silver behind because she said nobody needed forks designed specifically for fish.
Greta did not move with her.
That surprised Cassian.
“I thought you wanted Greta.”
“I love Greta.”
Greta stood beside them.
“I also have a job.”
Estelle nodded.
“And a life.”
They hired a household assistant twenty hours a week.
Estelle interviewed three candidates herself.
Rejected the one Cassian liked.
Hired Margaret Chen, sixty-one, formerly an executive assistant.
Cassian asked why.
“She told me she hates ironing.”
“That was the qualification?”
“She also asked me what I wanted help with instead of telling me what people my age usually need.”
Cassian had no response.
The first night in the condo, he stayed until ten.
Estelle finally opened the front door.
“Go home.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“What if you need—”
“I have a telephone.”
“What if you fall?”
“I have the alert watch.”
“What if—”
“Cassian.”
He stopped.
She looked around the smaller living room.
“I chose this.”
“I know.”
“Then let me have the part where I enjoy it before you invent the disaster.”
He kissed her forehead.
Left.
Then sat in his car downstairs for twenty minutes.
Marcus Hale, still his security chief, looked at him through the mirror.
“You know the building has security.”
“Yes.”
“Emergency response under four minutes.”
“Yes.”
“Then why are we sitting?”
Cassian glared.
Marcus looked forward again.
At 10:27, Estelle sent one message.
STOP WATCHING BUILDING.
Cassian looked at Marcus.
“Did you tell her?”
“No.”
Another message arrived.
I KNOW MY SON.
Cassian went home.
Three months later, Estelle hosted dinner in the condo.
Six people.
No capos.
No board packets.
Too much bread.
Again.
She sat at the head of a table that belonged entirely to her.
The estate remained family property.
May you like
Her home had become somewhere she selected for herself.
That difference mattered.
