At my funeral, no one knew the real will was lying right under the memorial picture.” The family was fiercely arguing over the inheritance: the brother wanted the house, the sister wanted the insurance money, and the husband wanted to sell everything. The more they tried to “guess” what she had written, the more their greedy and cruel nature was revealed. And then one person stood up…
Death is a strange experience. You no longer feel pain, but your hearing becomes incredibly sharp. I was suspended somewhere between the oak-paneled ceiling of the living room, looking down at my own corpse—or rather, down at my photograph.
It was a large, black-and-white portrait, taken by Leibovitz when I was 40. In the picture, I had a half-smile, my eyes sharp and defiant. The photograph sat prominently on a marble console table, surrounded by dozens of garlands of pristine white lilies—the flower I hated most because its scent reminded me of morgues.
But the most ridiculous thing wasn’t the flowers. The ridiculous thing was that no one in that room, filled with black Armani suits and Chanel silk dresses, knew that the real will, the paper that would decide the fate of $50 million, lay right beneath the velvet lining of that picture frame.
I hid it there the night before my heart attack. A very “timely” heart attack, in my husband’s opinion.
The funeral had just ended. The social guests had left, leaving the sprawling Hamptons beachfront mansion shrouded in a drizzle and stifling silence.
Only four people remained in the living room: Richard (my husband), Clara (my sister), Julian (my brother), and Mr. Thorne – the aging family lawyer.
“Alright, Thorne,” Richard broke the silence. He poured me an expensive glass of Scotch, his hand trembling slightly. Not from grief, but from impatience. “We don’t need to wait until tomorrow to announce the will. Evelyn is gone, procedure is just procedure.”
Richard, the man I married ten years ago for his good looks, now looked like a hungry vulture. His real estate company was drowning in debt. He needed to sell off my art collection immediately.
“Hold on, Richard,” Julian said. My brother plopped down on the sofa, his muddy leather shoes resting on the Noguchi coffee table. “The art collection is part of the house. And according to traditional inheritance law, this house belongs to the eldest brother.”
I chuckled (though no one heard). Julian, who had bankrupted three startups with our parents’ money, was now talking about “tradition.” He wanted the house to mortgage it for his next stupid cryptocurrency venture.
“Are you two crazy?” Clara hissed. My sister stood by the window, fiddling with a string of imitation pearls. “The house and the paintings need time to liquidate. I need cash. Life insurance money. Evelyn promised to leave me her whole life insurance policy to take care of the kids.”
The “children” Clara was referring to were attending boarding school in Switzerland, and the last time she visited them was the Christmas before last. Clara owed money to loan sharks in Vegas.
Mr. Thorne, the old lawyer with thick glasses, sat silently flipping through the papers in his briefcase. He was the only one who knew about the “game” I had set up.
“Gentlemen,” Mr. Thorne’s voice rang out, deep and hoarse. “I have a will drafted by Evelyn five years ago…”
“Five years ago?” Richard interrupted, his eyes shining. “Great. We were still happily married then. Surely she left me full control of her estate.”
“Don’t even dream of it,” Julian slammed the table. “Five years ago was when Evelyn was arguing with you about your affair with the secretary. She certainly crossed your name off the list.”
“And she didn’t know I lost at gambling then!” Clara interjected, her voice full of hope. “She still loves me the most.”
They started arguing. Bitter words spewed out like snake venom. They were no longer grieving relatives. They were beasts tearing at their prey.
I looked down from above, feeling a surge of disgust. I knew they were greedy, but witnessing this blatant cruelty still made my soul ache.
“Her death is good for all of us!” Richard suddenly shouted, his face flushed. “Don’t pretend to be virtuous, Julian. You secretly siphoned off her charity fund. If Evelyn were alive and audited, you’d be rotting in jail!”
“And you?” Julian snarled, lunging forward and grabbing Richard by the collar. “Do you think I don’t know you swapped her heart medication? You’ve been wishing her dead every day!”
“Shut up!” Clara yelled, throwing the crystal glass against the wall. “I’m the only one who cares about her! I was with her last week!”
“You were there rummaging through the safe, weren’t you!” Richard pushed Julian away, sneering. “The security cameras recorded everything, you idiot.”
The room descended into chaos. Richard and Julian lunged at each other. The coffee table was overturned. Swearing and crashing sounds filled the air.
During the struggle, Julian was pushed hard, his back slamming against the marble console table.
Bang!
The table shook. My memorial photo wobbled and fell to the wooden floor.
Smash!
The glass frame shattered. My black-and-white photo lay haphazardly amidst the sharp shards of glass. But no one cared. Richard was strangling Julian, while Clara was trying to pry open the wine cabinet drawer to find the safe key.
Only one person moved toward the photo.
It was Mr. Thorne.
The old man walked slowly forward, completely unconcerned.
Amidst the frenzied brawl behind him, he bent down and picked up the picture frame. The velvet lining on the back was torn from the impact, revealing a crimson envelope taped tightly to the back of the cardboard.
Mr. Thorne opened the envelope.
“STOP!”
Mr. Thorne’s shout rang out, powerful enough to make the three frenzied figures freeze.
Richard released his grip on Julian’s neck. Clara stopped prying open the cabinet. They all turned to look at the old lawyer.
Mr. Thorne stood in the middle of the room, holding the red envelope, his cold gaze sweeping over each of them.
“What is this?” Richard gasped, wiping the blood from his lips.
“This is the latest will,” Mr. Thorne said, holding up the paper. “Drafted and signed at 11 o’clock last night. Just two hours before Evelyn died.”
The room fell silent.
“What?” Julian stammered, “But… Evelyn was in a coma at the time…”
“No,” I whispered from the ceiling. “I was just pretending, my dear brother.”
Mr. Thorne began to read, his voice clear and distinct:
“To my dearest loved ones…”
“I know you’re here. I know you’re fighting over every penny even before my body is cold. Richard, I know you swapped the medicine. Julian, I know you embezzled 2 million dollars. Clara, I know you stole Mother’s sapphire jewelry.”
Their faces turned ashen. Fear replaced greed.
“I could send the evidence to the police. But that would be too easy for you. I want to play a game.”
Mr. Thorne paused, adjusting his glasses.
“My entire estate, including my house, art collection, cash, and stocks, totaling $52 million, will be placed in an Independent Trust.”
“The sole beneficiary of this trust will be…”
All three held their breath. Richard stepped forward, his hands trembling. “Who? Me? I’m the legal husband…”
Mr. Thorne continued, a sarcastic smile playing on his lips:
“…The sole beneficiary is Richard’s illegitimate child, whom he abandoned eight years ago at the St. Jude orphanage.”
Richard collapsed to the floor. His eyes widened in horror. He had kept the matter of the illegitimate child a secret; he didn’t even know if it was alive or dead.
“But that’s not all,” Mr. Thorne continued, his voice hardening. “The conditions for that child to receive the money are: Richard, Julian, and Clara must be under court supervision and perform unpaid community service at the St. Jude Orphanage for 10 years. If any of you refuse or flee, all evidence of your crimes (which I have sent to an anonymous third party) will be immediately forwarded to the Prosecutor’s Office.”
Silence filled the room, heavier than death itself.
No one would inherit a penny.
Richard lost everything and had to serve the child he disowned.
Julian and Clara would be forced into slave labor if they didn’t want to go to prison for embezzlement and theft.
It was perfect revenge. I didn’t just take their money; I took away their freedom and their self-respect, forcing them to live in torment every day.
“No… it can’t be…” Clara groaned, collapsing beside Richard.
Julian stood frozen, his face drained of all color.
Mr. Thorne folded the letter and slipped it into his inner pocket. He looked down at the shattered photograph on the floor, where my face still wore that defiant smile.
“Miss Evelyn,” Mr. Thorne said softly, as if speaking to a living person. “You always know how to end a party.”
He picked up his fedora, stepped over the shards, over the three utterly devastated figures on the floor, and out the door.
Outside, the rain had stopped.
I looked down at Richard, weeping in despair. For the first time in years, I felt peace. I had taught them one last lesson: Money can buy silence, but it cannot buy the forgiveness of the dead.
I smiled, and slowly faded into nothingness, leaving behind a family utterly destroyed by their own greed.
