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OKAY MAYBE A LITTLE PANIC WAY.

Despite everything, I huff a laugh. The sound bounces off the basement walls and dies fast.

I sit up, elbows on my knees, phone in my hand. I hit Kev’s name and put the phone to my ear.

It rings once. Twice. Then he answers, already talking.

“Okay, first, don’t yell at me.”

I close my eyes.

“That is a terrible opening.”

“I know. I practiced three versions, and that was the least terrible.”

“Kev.”

“Right. Legal stuff.”

I sit on the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees, phone pressed to my ear. The basement feels suddenly smaller, like Kev’s voice has taken up space in it. Across from me, the cam desk sits dark in the corner.

“What happened?” I ask.

“So,” Kev says, dragging the word out long enough to make me want to reach through the phone and shake him. “There’s been movement.”

“Good movement?”

“Not bad movement.”

“That’s not a real answer.”

“Correct. I have intentionally not answered for fear of yelling.”

I lean forward until my head almost reaches my knees. “Can you please talk like a real lawyer?”

He exhales. Paper rustles on his end. I can picture him somewhere with a stack of school folders, probably in flip-flops, probably eating from a bag over documents he should not be eating over.

“Okay. The U.S. properties are basically off the table.”

The words drop like a cave in.

The washing machine kicks off with a dull thump, then starts refilling. Water rushes through old pipes in the wall.

“As in?”

“Paul’s side has the stronger argument. Remember—decades, agreements—all the very boring rich-people paperwork that exists so things don’t get messy when someone dies.”

I stare at the floor between my feet. The paint is chipped there, a gray scrape in the concrete shaped almost like a country.

“So that’s it?”

“No.”

“But mostly.”

“Clint—”

“Don’t Clint me.”