Only in the car did Abigail realize that the thing she was clutching in her hands was Charlie's cane.

  Charlie had a confident, springy gait and didn't need a cane. But he always carried one with him. “A real man should always carry a weapon,” he used to say. To protect himself. He used to say it would suit a woman, too — a girl from a dangerous neighbourhood.

  So he taught her how to use a cane as a weapon.

  Today she used it. However, it was neither a street fight nor even a fair duel.

  Just a mess.

  The notary was in a hurry. He glanced at those present, pausing briefly on Abigail, as if he too wanted to ask, “Who is this?” But he decided it didn’t matter. The reason became clear very quickly: Charlie’s will was very short. The notary rattled off a list of all the personal and real property owned by the deceased, announcing that it would all pass to Susan Warren, the deceased’s wife.

  When he finished, he held his breath and looked around the room, as if expecting objections — or a quarrel, or even a spectacular fistfight between the potential heirs. When nothing of the sort happened, he exhaled with theatrical relief and began gathering the papers from the table, answering Susan’s questions and giving her instructions in the brisk, matter-of-fact tone of a surgeon who has just completed an operation and is briefing anxious relatives.

  He was already at the office door when Abigail finally awoke from her stupor and spoke, loudly yet unexpectedly calmly:

  “This cannot be all.”

  The notary looked back at her with annoyance. Susan’s eyebrows knitted together. Sarah’s face took on a familiar, hunting excitement.

  “Do you have any objections?” the notary asked sourly and reluctantly took two steps back towards the table.

  “Don't worry,” said Susan, still keeping her sharp gaze fixed on Abigail. “It doesn't matter.”

  The notary hesitated for a moment, shifting his gaze from Abigail to Susan and back again. Then he fixed it on Abigail.

  “You can take legal action, miss,” he said. “Who are you to the deceased, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “I…” Abigail tried to find the right word, but couldn’t. And Susan answered for her.

  “She’s… a relative of my late husband.” Her voice was tinged with false embarrassment. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Pinker, it isn’t easy for me to put it…”

  “An offshoot,” Sarah suggested, putting into the word enough venom to poison the entire Borgia dynasty.

  The notary nodded, indicating that he understood perfectly, and turned to Abigail.

  “Do you have any documents confirming your… family relationship?”

  Abigail felt herself boiling over.

  “I had no family relationship with the late Mr. Willowby,” she replied sharply. “He was…”

  She paused. All of them were looking at her, and none with sympathy.

  “…my godfather,” she finally found a suitable word.

  Sarah chuckled briefly and remarked, as if not addressing anyone in particular, “Except Daddy was an atheist.”

  Abigail was stunned by such insolence. Charlie, perhaps, was an atheist. But he had never been a “daddy” to Sarah.

  She glanced at Susan and realized the truce was over. That there had been no truce at all — mother and daughter had known perfectly well what the will would say. And now they were enjoying watching Abigail’s confusion and despair.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Pinker,” said Susan, keeping her piercing gaze fixed on Abigail. “It is just… emotions. My late husband was not very good with the children. Neither with my Sarah. Nor with… with his Abigail.”

  The notary shook his head sadly and patted Susan’s hand.

  “Don’t worry, madam,” he said, addressing only Susan, as if it were she, not Abigail, who had asked. “This happens very often. When it comes to the division of property, even the strongest family ties can crack.”

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  Abigail was ready to explode, but with an effort of will, she pushed the furious cry back into her throat and spoke deliberately, quietly:

  “Cut the nonsense. There are no family ties. I believe the will is forged — or manipulated. What should we do about it?”

  “You can take legal action, dear,” the notary replied. “Or maybe you can’t. As I understand it, you’re not related to the deceased, are you?”

  “I was his doctor and spent a lot of time beside his hospital bed,” Abigail said firmly.

  The notary looked at Abigail, then at Susan with concern. Emboldened, Abigail continued:

  “You are aware, of course, that Mr. Willowby has spent the last two months in hospital, are you not? And you know how easy it can be to manipulate the will of someone unconscious for a long time.”

  The notary stared intently into space for a few seconds, then finally said listlessly:

  “If you have concerns that abuse has taken place… As I said, you can go to the authorities.”

  And he left.

  Susan, casting a meaningful glance at Sarah, hurried after the notary to see him out.

  Sarah walked around Abigail and went to the door. There she stopped and looked meaningfully at Abigail, as if suggesting that she clear the room.

  Abigail left the office and headed for the living room. That suited her fine — she didn’t want to make a scene in Charlie’s quiet workspace, where the memory of him seemed tangible.

  When she entered the living room, Susan was already there. She no longer resembled either a welcoming hostess or even a grieving widow. As soon as she saw Abigail, she snapped:

  “God knows I tried to be kind to you. Though you always hated me. You always tried to come between us — me and Charlie, Charlie and Sarah. I understood your childish jealousy. I forgave it all for Charlie’s sake. And what now? First, you ruined our marriage. And now you’re here to ruin Charlie’s legacy and reputation!”

  For a moment, Abigail was numb with confusion.

  “No,” she finally managed to say. “No, that’s not true. I never interfered in your family affairs.”

  “Really? Charlie was supposed to be my father,” Sarah cut in, her voice tremulous. “But he never was. Because you were always around.”

  Abigail looked at Susan in confusion, hoping she would put a stop to the nonsense. But Susan was watching her daughter with pity and disappointment. It was painfully clear: Sarah was only saying out loud what Susan was actually thinking. In fact, Sarah had never cared whether Charlie accepted her as his daughter — it was Susan’s desire.

  “I don’t blame Charlie,” said Sarah in a voice full of feigned humility. “Blood is thicker than water.”

  “Blood?”

  It was outrageous. Even understanding that mother and daughter were settling their own scores, using her merely as a pretext, Abigail couldn’t restrain herself.

  “Cut the crap!” she shouted. “Charlie and I were always just friends. That’s all!”

  “Does your mum agree with that?” Sarah asked in a hushed whisper, as if she didn’t want her mother to hear.

  “And out of pure friendship, my husband should have left you his inheritance?”

  “I know for certain that this will is fake. Or at the very least, incomplete,” Abigail said firmly.

  Susan pinned her with an intense stare.

  “Why do you think so? Did you see another will?”

  Abigail shook her head reluctantly.

  “Oh, poor thing,” Sarah said mockingly. “He promised you something, didn’t he? And you believed him. Shame. Such a big girl — still believing men.”

  More than anything, Abigail wanted to slap her. She knew she would win — she really was a girl from a rough neighbourhood, had been in street fights since childhood. Sarah was an easy opponent for her.

  But she drew a breath and said, as calmly as she could:

  “I’m going to find the truth. Perhaps I’ll go to court.”

  Mother and daughter exchanged glances. The mocking smile slipped from Sarah’s face.

  “Very well,” Susan said slowly. “Let’s involve the law.”

  “I’d love that,” Sarah hissed. “There’s something I want to know, too. Something about my loser sister.”

  “I’m not your sister!” Abigail shouted, fists clenching.

  “Better for me you’re not,” Sarah answered sweetly. “Who needs a criminal in their family?”

  “Criminal?” Susan frowned. “What are you talking about?”

  “I spoke with the nurses,” Sarah replied, “and found out an interesting story. About a poor, honest female doctor with a light-blue credit card. With fifteen grand, at least. Guess who this doctor is?”

  Abigail froze, mouth open.

  How could Sarah possibly know?

  “And how that young doctor — oh no, just an intern — could make such an amount of money?” Sarah continued. “Did she sell someone’s kidney? Or was it drugs disguised as medicine? Either way — such a talented girl surely does not need an inheritance.”

  “Abigail?” Susan gave her a tight, expectant look.

  Abigail swallowed and forced out:

  “It was for Charlie’s surgery.”

  Sarah burst into laughter.

  “Oh, so it’s not an urban legend? It really happened, and this lucky doctor is my little sister?”

  Susan kept glaring at Abigail.

  “Interesting. If you had the money for the surgery, why did you try to get it from me?” she asked.

  Sarah sighed and shook her head.

  “Oh dear — and who’s the swindler here?”

  It was more than Abigail could bear.

  She glanced around the room.

  The tea set still stood on the low table, just as they had left it when the notary arrived. It seemed like an artifact from the past — a peaceful, cosy past that no longer existed. Perhaps had never existed. Illusion. Deception. Fraud.

  She grabbed one of the cups and hurled it to the floor with all her strength.

  The melodious clink of porcelain blended with Susan’s scream.

  “My Saxon porcelain! Do you know how much it costs?”

  Abigail looked at her. She wondered whether Susan had screamed like that when she learned Charlie was dead.

  She seized another cup.

  Susan knew perfectly well the value of the rare things her ex-husband had cherished — Abigail vaguely remembered they had met at some auction.

  “Stop her!” Susan cried.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Abigail saw Sarah rushing her. Abigail stepped back and grabbed the first thing within reach — some kind of stick. Sarah recoiled instantly. She had always been a coward.

  Abigail looked regretfully at the table — there was still something left on it.

  She swung the stick like a golf club and swept everything remaining off the table. Susan screamed again.

  “Crazy bitch! Who let you practise as a doctor?”

  “Call the police!” Sarah shrieked. “She’ll pay for this! For everything!”

  Abigail didn’t wait to hear more.

  She rushed out of the house and strode toward her car.