‘You’ve all just made the same mistake with Bradley that you’ve made for thirty-eight years.
You assumed that because he was quiet, he was weak.
Because he was private, he was broke.
Because he didn’t parade his life for your approval, he must not have built one.’
Declan straightened from the suitcase.
He was Bradley’s cousin on his father’s side, always borrowing money, always carrying that faint mix of entitlement and cologne.
‘There’s no will,’ he said.
‘We already checked.’
‘Of course you did,’ I replied.
‘And of course you didn’t find one.’
What none of them knew was that six days earlier, beneath the sterile glow of hospital lights and the steady hiss of oxygen, Bradley had predicted this almost word for word.
If they come before the flowers die, he had whispered, laugh first.
Elena will handle the rest.
He had looked pale then.
So pale it seemed as though something fragile and final was glowing beneath his skin.
The monitors blinked steadily.
Rain dragged itself down the hospital window in thin silver lines.
He squeezed my hand with the last of his strength and made me repeat his instructions back to him.
Call Elena.
Do not argue.
