Out in the hallway, the organ started to play.
The church was packed. Relatives. Neighbors. My father’s business partners. Donors from my parents’ charity, the Stone Family Foundation, which had put my parents’ faces in the local paper every Christmas for ten years. Three hundred people who believed the picture-perfect Stone family had nothing to hide.
Mom lifted her chin. She thought she’d already won.
What she didn’t know was that I had spent the last eighteen months following every dollar they’d ever taken.
And what I didn’t know was that my grandfather had plans of his own.
Let me back up a little. Because you need to know what kind of house I grew up in.
We lived in a big white colonial outside of Hartford, Connecticut. Five bedrooms. Three on the second floor, one for my parents, one for Paige, one for Lauren. A guest room downstairs.
