"I know." I waved him off. "I know. The jewelry. The house. The cash from the safe. Everything we cleaned out of her mother's place was pocket change next to the trust. I know. We didn't find out about the trust until we'd already burned every bridge in Ireland. I know."
"And the trust comes to her on her thirtieth birthday whether she touches it or not."
"Which is why she still has no idea the trust exists. Which is the only reason we still have a window. I went to her today. She is closed up tight. She didn't eat the food. She didn't open the gift. She walked out."
He stood, drifted to the window, and stared at the sodium glow on the street.
"Then in a few days, when the moment is right," he said quietly, "I'll go to her myself."
"And if she still says no?"
He turned. Something col
