The final papers came on a Tuesday.
It was a year and a half after the night I had walked out of the Ashford house. It was a year and three months after the helicopter had landed on my bluff. It was six months after the museum had opened.
Julian brought the papers to the workshop. He set them on the bench, next to the soldering iron, and he said, "This is it."
"This is what?"
"The last of it," he said. "The final transfer. The house, the trust, the Foundation. All of it's done."
I picked up the pen. I looked at the paper. It was a single page, with a line at the bottom for my signature.
The last time I had seen a paper like this, it had been the waiver. The one Constance had wanted me to sign. The one that would have given me ten thousand dollars a month in exchange for my silence.
