“How could there be a girl claiming to be me?” I whispered.
The noise of the party vanished. The music, the clinking glasses, the laughter, my father’s voice still echoing through the ballroom… it all drifted away.
“Dianne, listen to me,” Mr. Santos said. “Your father slipped out the back door ten minutes ago. He arrived at the notary’s office with Celia and a young woman carrying an ID with your name on it. They intend to sign a power of attorney to sell the Brooklyn Heights house.”
I grabbed a marble column to keep from falling. “Who is she?”
“I don’t know yet. The notary called me because your mother left a protective instruction in her file: any action regarding that property had to be notified to me if you had just turned eighteen.”
My mother. Even from the grave, she was still watching my back.
“I’m on my way,” I said. “Don’t go alone.”
I looked toward the stage. Lily was still receiving hugs. Celia was gone. My father was gone. The guests hadn’t noticed; they were still drinking wine and eating hors d’oeuvres as if, in another part of the city, they weren’t trying to rob me of the last place I was ever truly happy.
Aunt Susan appeared at my side. “What happened?”
I told her in three sentences. She didn’t cry. She didn’t scream. She simply took the envelope from my hands, tucked it into her purse, and said, “Let’s go shut down the show.”
We took a cab outside the ballroom. Manhattan glowed with that cold elegance of expensive restaurants, dark SUVs, and people who had learned to smile without looking. I sat in the back seat, clutching my mother’s photo, feeling every red light steal time from us.
The house in Brooklyn Heights wasn’t a mansion. It was an old brownstone with a classic stoop, iron railings, and ivy that my mother used to trim with rusted shears. It was near cobblestone streets, cafes with outdoor seating, and the scent of fresh bagels and roasting coffee. The Heights keeps its gardens, its quiet charm, and its historic paths that draw people in far beyond the famous Promenade.
To my father, that house was just cash. To me, it was my mother laughing while she watered her flower boxes.
We arrived at the law office at 10:40 PM. Mr. Santos was waiting for us at the entrance with a black leather briefcase. He was a thin man with white hair, always impeccable, always serious. Tonight, his jaw was set tight.
“The notary is stalling the signing,” he said. “She asked them to cross-reference documents. We don’t have much time.” “Have they signed anything yet?” “No. But your father is applying pressure.”
