Inside the warm, well-lit living room, the atmosphere was one of triumphant celebration.

Kevin sprawled on his father’s favorite leather recliner, his feet resting on the ottoman Arthur had strictly forbidden shoes on. He held a glass of expensive scotch—Arthur’s 18-year-old single malt—in his hand. Across from him, his wife, Jessica, was already flipping through paint swatches, holding them up against the cream-colored walls.

“I hate this wallpaper,” Jessica said, wrinkling her nose as she peeled a strip of the floral pattern Arthur and Martha had picked out in the nineties. “It smells like old people. We need to gut this whole floor. Open concept. Knock down that wall to the kitchen.”

Kevin laughed, a sound that lacked any warmth. It was the laugh of a man who thought he had won a lottery he didn’t buy a ticket for. “Do whatever you want, babe. It’s ours now. Finally.”

“Are you sure she won’t come back?” Jessica asked, pausing. “What if she has a key?”

“I changed the locks this morning,” Kevin bragged, swirling his drink. The ice clinked musically against the crystal. “Let her try. She’ll see the note and go crying to her sister in Jersey. I’m done carrying her. Dad is gone, and the law is the law. I’m the only son. Possession is nine-tenths of the law, right? I’m in the house. She’s out.”

He took a long, burning sip. “I deserve this house. I put up with his lectures for thirty years. ‘Kevin, get a job.’ ‘Kevin, save your money.’ This is my payment for listening to that old man drone on.”