The Will

The Reading I

Lily POV

The ballroom had been designed to make ordinary people feel insignificant.

Everything about it communicated scale. The ceilings soared three stories overhead, supported by carved wooden beams darkened with age. Crystal chandeliers hung like inverted constellations, casting warm pools of light across polished marble floors. Along the walls, oil portraits of long-dead Ashwoods watched us with the sort of practiced indifference only generational wealth could afford.

Four people stood beneath all that history.

Four people summoned without explanation.

Statistically improbable.

Intentionally curated.

I sat at the far end of an antique conference table that had likely cost more than my apartment building. Across from me, the groundskeeper, Dally, shifted uncomfortably in his chair, broad shoulders tense beneath a clean button-down that looked as though he had ironed it himself. To my right sat the girl from the Corolla. Ayla. She had introduced herself so quietly I almost missed it. Her hands remained folded tightly in her lap, fingers twisting together in a repetitive motion that suggested anxiety rather than impatience. Gunnar Hastings occupied the seat closest to the head of the table. Naturally. Even now, he carried himself with the confidence of someone expecting to be congratulated.

Interesting.

Three variables I couldn't account for.

One common denominator.

Keenan Ashwood.

A discreet chime sounded from hidden speakers overhead.

The lights dimmed.

At the far end of the ballroom, a projection screen descended from the ceiling.

Nobody spoke.

The screen flickered once.

Then Keenan Ashwood appeared.

The footage had been professionally recorded. Neutral background. Perfect lighting. He wore a charcoal suit and silver tie, hands folded neatly in front of him.

He looked older than I remembered.

Not frail, per se, but tired.

His eyes met the camera directly.

"If you're watching this, that means I'm dead."

Ayla inhaled sharply beside me.

Keenan paused. "But not merely dead." His expression hardened. "Murdered."

Silence swallowed the room. For a moment, nobody moved. Nobody breathed.

I felt my pulse accelerate, but my mind remained strangely calm.

Dead. Murdered. Important distinction. Murder implied intent. Intent implied motive. Motive implied suspects.

Keenan continued, "I imagine some of you are surprised to find yourselves here. Others less so." His gaze shifted slightly, as though looking directly at each of us in turn. "I selected the four of you because each of you knew me differently. Each of you saw a version of me no one else did."

I reached for the leather notebook in my purse and began writing: Four invitees. Personally selected. Distinct relationships. Potential witnesses. Potential suspects.

"You have been chosen to inherit my estate."

The boy with the calloused hands frowned.

Ayla's head snapped upward.

The one in the suit sat a little straighter.

I kept writing.

"All assets held by Ashwood Industries, including subsidiary companies, real estate holdings, intellectual property, investment portfolios, and liquid capital." A brief pause. "At present valuation, approximately four hundred and twenty billion dollars."

Even knowing Keenan's net worth had always been astronomical, hearing the number spoken aloud felt surreal.

Four hundred and twenty billion. Divided four ways would be one hundred and five billion each.

That's enough money to alter global markets. Enough money to destabilize governments. Enough money to motivate murder. I circled the last thought. Twice.

"

However," video Keenan said, "inheritance is contingent upon fulfilling two conditions." There it was. Constraint. Keenan never gave anything away without attaching a problem to solve or a string he could pull. "First, all four of you must remain on Ashwood Estate grounds for six months. Second, you must correctly identify my killer."

Nobody spoke. Nobody needed to.

The implications arrived all at once.

Closed environment. Finite suspect pool.

Four people selected because of their connection to the victim. Four people with immediate financial incentive. Four people trapped together for six months.

I looked around the table. Ayla's face had gone pale, grief overtaking whatever hope with which she'd arrived. One boy looked less upset than bewildered, as though he had shown up expecting a disciplinary meeting and found himself inside a physics problem. The other's complexion had lost some color. Shock manifested physically in different ways.

As for me, I felt something I hadn't experienced in years.

Focus.

Pure, crystalline focus.

Keenan Ashwood was dead. Someone in this room had killed him.

And for the first time since my life had unraveled, the noise inside my head went quiet.

Because puzzles, unlike people, always made sense eventually.