Marco sat on the hood of his car as the sunrise bleached the street. He imagined months of dueling filings while he stayed at a hotel nearby. He imagined the cat, betrayed by the very people who promised kibble. He imagined becoming a cautionary anecdote at neighborhood barbecues for years to come.
The next morning, Marco returned with coffee, trying diplomacy. “Perhaps you should wrap things up before lawyers complicate matters,” he suggested through the door. His uncle’s reply floated back, buoyed with confidence: “We’re preserving the estate’s legacy.” Legacy. As if legacies depended on stolen locks and inherited arrogance.