The taxi pulled up to the massive wrought-iron gates of the Bullock estate in Greenwich, Connecticut. The sun was just starting to set.
Cora handed the driver a twenty-dollar bill and stepped out.
She looked up at the sprawling, English-style brick mansion. It was bought and paid for by her parents' blood, but Harlon treated it like his own kingdom. Her stomach churned with disgust.
She pushed open the heavy oak front door. The blinding light from the Swarovski crystal chandelier in the foyer made her squint.
Her Aunt Wanda was sitting on the velvet sofa, flipping through a copy of Vogue. She wore a silk robe. When she heard the door, she looked up.
Wanda's eyes dragged up and down Cora's cheap hoodie. Her upper lip curled in a sneer.
"You brought those hospital germs into my house," Wanda said sharply. She didn't say hello. She turned her head and yelled toward the kitchen. "Maria! Bring the Lysol spray to the foyer!"
Cora ignored her. She walked straight toward the grand staircase.
A figure stepped out onto the landing, blocking her path. Her cousin, Dustin.
He was spinning a Porsche key ring around his index finger. His eyes were bloodshot, his face puffy from too much alcohol and not enough sleep.
"Look who's back," Dustin sneered. "Run out of allowance already? Coming to beg my dad for a handout?"
Cora stopped on the bottom step. She looked at Dustin's face. In her past life, she had watched this exact man shove a pregnant woman down a flight of concrete stairs just to steal a single can of spam.
Cora stepped up, closing the distance until she was inches from his face.
"Move," Cora said. Her voice was a low, dead whisper. "Or I will take those car keys and shove them so far down your throat you'll choke on the metal."
Dustin's smirk faltered, but his ego wouldn't let him back down immediately. "Are you out of your damn mind?" he spat, raising a hand as if to shove her back down the stairs. But as his eyes locked onto the absolute, dead-eyed certainty in hers, his hand froze in mid-air. The suffocating aura of a killer washed over him, bypassing his bravado and striking pure, primal fear into his gut. He actually flinched, taking a hasty, stumbling step back until his spine hit the wooden banister.
Cora bumped her shoulder hard against his chest as she pushed past him. She walked down the second-floor hallway and went straight for the heavy double doors at the end.
She didn't knock. She grabbed the brass handles and shoved the doors open. They hit the walls with a loud bang.
Harlon was sitting behind his massive mahogany desk, a lit cigar clamped between his teeth. Cora's grandmother, Myra, sat in a leather wingback chair near the fireplace.
Myra slammed her teacup down on the saucer. She struck the floor with the tip of her cane.
"Where are your manners, girl?" Myra barked. "You burst in here like a wild animal!"
Cora turned around, pushed the doors shut, and locked them with a loud click. She dropped her backpack onto the Persian rug and sat down in the chair opposite Harlon.
Harlon blew a thick cloud of gray smoke into the air. He crushed the cigar into a crystal ashtray and glared at her.
"The answer is no," Harlon said immediately. "I am not funding some imaginary digital coin scheme. You are financially illiterate."
Cora gripped the armrests of her chair. She forced her breathing to speed up, making her chest heave. She played the part of the angry, misunderstood teenager.
"It's the future!" Cora yelled, letting her voice crack. "You just don't understand technology! You want to keep me locked out of my own money forever!"
Myra let out a dry, hacking laugh. "You are exactly like your worthless mother. Always dreaming, never working."
Cora's jaw locked. The muscles in her neck went rigid. She wanted to rip the old woman's throat out, but she kept her face twisted in fake, helpless rage.
Harlon opened his desk drawer. He pulled out a thick stack of stapled papers and threw them across the desk. They slid and stopped right in front of Cora.
"This is an extension of the trust management," Harlon said smoothly. "It locks the principal until you are twenty-five. You get a monthly stipend. Sign it, and I'll forget this little tantrum."
Cora looked down at the papers.
Her heavy breathing stopped. Her hands relaxed on the armrests. The angry teenager vanished, replaced by something entirely different.
She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small, black USB drive. She placed it gently on top of the contract.
The temperature in the room seemed to drop. Harlon stared at the piece of plastic. His eyes narrowed.
Cora leaned forward, resting her elbows on the desk.
"Since you don't like crypto," Cora said, her voice completely smooth and devoid of emotion, "let's talk about tax fraud and offshore shell companies."
