“Eleanor, darling.” Amanda offered an air‑kiss that landed safely a breath from my cheek. “So glad you could make it.”

“No wine,” I said. “Thank you.”

She pivoted to a tall man in an Italian suit. “Julian, you came.” Her hand fell to his knee and stayed there. I found a corner and held to the last thin rope of composure.

Palmer positioned himself by the marble fireplace. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, and the room fell into the hush of expensive rooms. “This is the last will and testament of Richard Thomas Thompson, executed and notarized four months ago.”

Four months. Richard updated every August on his birthday. New Year’s had changed something I didn’t yet know the name for.