Brothers Pressured Her to Sell Father's Tool Bench — Secret Floor Panel Held $267M in Gold

Описание: Brothers Pressured Her to Sell Father's Tool Bench — Secret Floor Panel Held $267M in Gold

The rain hammered Chicago's South Side the morning Catherine Martinez turned thirty-eight, but she barely noticed it through the kitchen window of the two-bedroom apartment she'd shared with her father for the last six years. The water streaked down glass already fogged from the radiator's relentless hiss, blurring the world outside into shapes that didn't demand attention, didn't require decisions, didn't force her to think about the empty hospital bed three blocks away where Dad had finally stopped breathing two days ago.
The apartment smelled like burnt coffee and old grief. Catherine had made a pot at four in the morning because sleep felt like betrayal, like if she closed her eyes she'd wake up and he'd still be gone, which made no sense because he was already gone, had been slipping away for months as the cancer did its patient, methodical work. But logic didn't apply to loss. She'd learned that when Mom died twelve years ago. You just survived it, one impossible hour after another, until eventually the hours stopped feeling quite so heavy.
Her phone buzzed for the sixteenth time that morning. Marcus again. Or Tyler. Her older brothers, circling like sharks who'd smelled blood in the water the moment the doctor pronounced time of death.
She let it ring.
The funeral was tomorrow. St. Augustine's, the church where Dad had brought them every Sunday until his body stopped cooperating with his faith. Father Donnelly would say nice things about Miguel Martinez, master carpenter, devoted father, pillar of the community. People would nod and mean it because Dad had been all those things and more. He'd built half the custom furniture in this neighborhood, repaired the other half, taught woodworking to kids at the community center for free every Saturday for twenty years.
And Marcus and Tyler would stand there in suits they'd bought specifically for this, looking appropriately sad while mentally calculating how fast they could liquidate Dad's assets and divide the proceeds.
Catherine's hands tightened around her coffee mug, ceramic warm against palms that felt perpetually cold these days. Her brothers had been calling for weeks, ever since the hospice nurse gently suggested it might be time to "get affairs in order." Asking about the will, about property, about Dad's workshop, about whether Catherine had "realistic plans" for supporting herself once the apartment lease ran out.
Because of course she didn't. Thirty-eight years old, never married, no kids, working part-time at the public library because full-time wasn't available and Dad's medical bills had eaten through savings faster than they could rebuild them. She'd given up her own studio apartment two years ago to move in here, to take care of him, to be present for the slow daily erosion of watching someone you love disappear by degrees.
Marcus ran a commercial construction company. Tyler managed a real estate investment firm. Both had families, houses in the suburbs, retirement accounts, and that particular confidence that came from never having to choose between paying rent and buying medication.
Both had stopped visiting Dad six months ago when it became clear his dying would be prolonged and uncomfortable and interfere with their schedules.
Her phone buzzed again. She picked it up this time, Tyler's name flashing across the screen.
"What?" Her voice came out harder than intended.
"Jesus, Cat, you could try answering once in a while." Tyler's tone carried that edge of aggrieved patience he'd perfected in childhood when Mom made him include his little sister in neighborhood games. "We need to talk about Dad's estate."
"We're burying him tomorrow. Can this wait?"
"No, actually, it can't. The lawyer's office called. There's a reading of the will scheduled for Friday. Marcus and I have been trying to coordinate with you, but you're not exactly making yourself available."
Catherine closed her eyes, pressing fingertips against the headache building behind her temples. "Fine. What time Friday?"
"Ten a.m. Brennan and Associates, downtown. Don't be late." He paused, his voice softening into something that might have been genuine concern if she didn't know him better. "You okay? You need anything?"


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