Devon snorted. “Don’t think so. You’d turn it into some hostel for your broke friends. We’ll sell it and split the proceeds like Mom wanted.”
Bailey huffed with her usual drama. “Mom always said I could have the house if I wanted. I bet she’d rather have it stay in the family.”
“Did you get that intention in writing?” Dev asked, her gaze sweeping over the spacious foyer to the crystal-dripping chandelier. Pris could practically hear her brain clicking with how much they could get for the place. Her role as tenured professor in the finance department at NYU was impressive, but she had a tendency to see things in stark black and white. Money was serious business, and Devon had made sure they all agreed to sell so everyone would get a fair share.
“Seriously? That’s messed up,” Bailey said.
“So is this.” Devon’s gaze cleared, her hazel eyes glinting with a new hardness Pris had never seen before. Like there’d been additional layers that crusted over during the years they’d grown apart. “Let’s not pretend this is what any of us want right now.”
“Mom’s death?” Pris asked, her insides clenching at the rising tension in the air. They formed a semicircle together. A memory flashed of the three of them ready to play hide-and-go-seek—squeezing into a tight knot while they picked who’d be it, back when they not only loved but liked one another.
“No. Being together. I’m not playing the role assigned to me, okay? So, let’s just agree to tackle the house piece by piece without getting all sentimental for things that no longer exist.”
Even Bailey sucked in her breath, a shadow of pain flickering over her delicate features. “Why are you so cold?” she whispered.
The air shimmered; softened; quieted. Pris waited for the answer too, wondering when the real turning point had been, when they’d decided being apart was better than trying to make the fragments of each of them fit into one clear puzzle. Two years ago? Five? Or had their relationship deteriorated so slowly no one had cared enough to count?
For a second, Dev opened her mouth and the words hung unuttered in the air, like an overfull balloon ready to pop.
Then she turned and the moment floated away.
“We better get started,” Devon said.
They watched her climb the grand staircase and disappear.
Bailey muttered something under her breath. “I need to use the bathroom,” she said, marching down the hallway. Left alone, Pris looked around, wondering if her mother’s presence would show itself. A brush of cold air. A sound. A wave of charged energy that announced Mom’s arrival to help smooth all these jagged edges between her children.
But nothing happened. Just a terrible empty sensation in the pit of her stomach and a familiar tension behind her eyes.
Pris dragged in a deep breath, set her shoulders, and headed up the stairs.
chapter two
Devon
Dev muttered a curse under her breath and opened the first empty box. Why did she have to act like such a bitch? At least when Bailey lost her temper, people accepted it as her artistic streak. She’d grown up with her parents shaking their heads at Bailey’s tantrums as if they were amused. But when Devon lost it? She was called ugly and out of control.
And right now?
They were right.
She yanked the top drawer of her mother’s nightstand and began to sift through an array of junk, making neat piles. One for garbage. One to sell in the estate sale. And one for treasures she or her sisters wanted to keep.
She heard Bailey’s stomping footsteps echo up the stairs and tried to push the sliver of guilt aside. Bailey was too old to be treated like a child. Why did everyone cater to her? If Devon hadn’t taken control, this house would still be sitting on the market, rotting away like all their potential money. Pris had her rich husband, and Bailey still relied on their father’s generous dole outs, but Dev made sure to make her own way.
Living in New York was damn expensive. Sure, being a tenured professor at NYU was a respectable career, with a decent salary. But there was still so much she craved—like scoring that elusive dean position and gaining a spot on the board. Being respected by her bosses, colleagues, and students on a higher level. Dev had a voracious appetite for success and sensed the victory she craved was close.
Dev refocused, finished the top drawer, and started on the next. Most of the stuff was throwaway remnants of cast-off makeup, holiday cards, empty notebooks, broken picture frames, and a mishmash of collectibles that had meant something to Mom once. The calming scent of lavender drifted in the air, soothing some of the jagged edges of a grief she’d not been willing to steep herself in. Not yet. When she got back to her place, she’d take some time to cry and mourn.
Alone.
“Nice going,” Pris drawled, sitting down on the edge of the bed. Crossing her long legs with a natural grace that spoke of all those days she used to dance, her oldest sister gave a deep sigh, clasping her hands on her knees. Dev took a moment to study the large, glittering rock on her finger, her French-manicured nails without a chip. Even at forty, she held a youthful beauty, from her swanlike neck and long blond hair to her wide powder-blue eyes that still shaded an onlooker from her secrets. Pris was the peacemaker but also the most secretive. Dev wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d learned her sibling danced in the fairy world when everyone went to sleep and had never breathed a word to anyone.
Both her sisters had inherited Mom’s looks—light hair, blue eyes, fair skin. Dev resembled her father with his dark hair and hazel eyes. He was a handsome man, always had been, but somehow the features she’d inherited didn’t work on a female as well. Dev always felt a bit too stocky in the hips and bust, a bit awkward in her gait, and a bit dull with her coloring. It was hard growing up with the golden sisters and the constant comments about how Dev looked so different. Sometimes, she’d had to grit her teeth to keep from slugging those nice old ladies who gave her a slightly sympathetic look.
She refocused and shrugged. Time to defend herself for being cruel to Bailey. “Sorry, but we all need to be grown-ups now. It’s not good for her to depend on Dad, or have grandiose ideas of keeping this house for fun. Can you work on the closet? I’ve got some not-for-profits coming to collect her designer labels, but the rest can be donated.”
“Don’t you want anything?” Pris asked. Her gaze flicked around the room as if cataloguing every personal item. “I’d like some pieces of jewelry she wore. And that red-gold sweater.”
Dev lifted a brow. “I think we should all take what means the most to us. I won’t fight anyone on it. Why would you want that sweater, though? God, it was awful.”
Bailey interrupted their conversation, her ponytail bouncing as she walked into the room. “For once, I agree with Dev. I begged Mom to throw it out every time I saw her, but she’d only wrap it closer. It’s old as dirt and ugly as sin. So bright I couldn’t even look at her when she wore it.”