Corinne let the question hang in the humid air before she answered. “Read the letterhead, Dad.” Harold’s eyes dropped back to the top of the page, and this time he read slowly, the way a man reads something he is afraid of. The paper was from Meridian Holdings, and beneath the name was a line he clearly had not expected to see: the company that had bought the mortgage on his house eight months ago, along with the loans on Preston’s gym and Dixon’s failed restaurant.

“You’ve been renting your own life from a stranger for the better part of a year,” Corinne said. “Except the stranger isn’t a stranger.” She let that settle. Preston looked at Dixon. Dixon looked at their mother. Harold’s jaw worked but nothing came out. “I own Meridian,” she finished, her voice never rising. “Every payment you three have made since October went into my account. And that document in your hand isn’t a bill.” She slid one more page across the table. “It’s the part you’re really going to want to read.”