Of course there was a catch. There’s always a catch.

His office lived in a glass tower that made my bus-frayed clothes look louder than they were. Marble. Murmur. A receptionist who smiled with only her mouth. Adrian matched the decor—razor part, perfect tie, the kind of expensive calm that didn’t squint at fluorescent lights.

He slid an envelope between us like it might bite. “Per your aunt, I must read this aloud. Only to you.”

He broke the seal. “You must live in Diane Miller’s home—‘The Old Mill House’—for one continuous year. You cannot sell or rent it. You must maintain it. And you must keep a journal of your experiences. The journal will be in a hidden compartment in her desk.”

A year. In a stranger’s house. With a journal.

“If you accept and fulfill the spirit of the condition,” he said, “the inheritance is yours. If not, it goes to conservation charities.”