Page 25 of These Summer Storms

“Yeah, whyareyou here, Jack?” Emily asked, finally speaking up, her thumb stroking over the foot of the small Rodin.

A brief pause. Barely there. Just enough for Alice to notice the slight straightening of Jack’s spine, like he was about to take a punch. Except he wasn’t. He was about to deliver one. “I’m here to articulate the terms of your inheritance.”

A collective breath filled the room, the house, the island. And then…Alice laughed. Everyone looked at her, a spectrum of shock and censure, but she didn’t care. Instead, she said, “Oh, come on. Ofcoursethere are terms for the inheritance. Dad probably spent years deciding the whos and hows and whats of it all.” She looked to Jack, still not moving. “Let me guess. A Storm Olympics redux.”

A tiny furrow marked the space between his dark brows. Confusion loud enough for Alice to hear.

She explained. “Who could swim the fastest, run the farthest, jump the highest, spell the most complicated word, do the most difficult long division, name the most presidents. Who went to the best college, brought home the best partner, did his bidding with the least resistance. Everything was a competition for that man’s praise. And now, we’re expected to compete for his money.”

Jack cleared his throat.

“Go on, then,” she urged, feeling strangely triumphant—she’d spent every hour since she’d learned of Franklin’s death wondering when the next shoe would drop, and finally, here it was, something she understood. “Do your worst.”

“If this is about the trust, then why isn’t Arthur here?” Sam asked.

“Arthur isn’t here because I was tasked with delivering the terms.” If he wasn’t careful, he was going to take out the Modigliani in the corner with one of his bombs.

“What the fuck?” This, from Sam.

“Language, Sam,” Elisabeth said instantly, before, “That’s notpossible, I would have known about it. Our wills clearly state that Arthur is the executor.”

“Arthur is the executor of your wills, Elisabeth,” Jack said with infinite patience. “This trust is a separate entity, consisting of Franklin’s extensive wealth and holdings, including his stake in Storm Inc.”

Stakewas a small, insignificant word—wildly unassuming for what they were discussing, which was 35 percent of the largest publicly traded company in the world. An amount of money so large that it produced more interest in a year than a person (or five, in this case) could reasonably spend. It was generational wealth beyond anyone’s wildest dreams—and if Jack was to be believed, it wasn’t guaranteed to trickle down to the second generation.

“Holy shit,” Sam said.

“Language, Samuel.”

“It doesn’t just pass to us?” Greta asked, leaning forward. “We’re his heirs. Isn’t it ours? What happens to it?”

“Your father left clear instructions for what comes next,” Jack said, perfectly calm, and Alice had a wild moment of remembering the night before, when he’d cursed and ordered her into the car to hide her from paparazzi in a tone far less calm. She swallowed a manic laugh at the thought that a photograph was more unsettling to this man than tens of billions of dollars.

“Which is?” Emily asked.

Jack hesitated. His gaze slid to Alice, briefly, and she ignored the way her breath quickened and her body went warm. Her body was a traitor. So was Jack. “A game, of sorts.”

She nodded. “There it is. So what is it? Survive a week without food or shelter? Dive off Moonstone Cliff and swim around the island? Eat a dozen serrano peppers in one sitting?” It could be anything. Franklin loved a challenge, the wilder the better—hence his glider crashing into a South County horse pasture the previous morning.

Jack lifted the envelopes. “These will explain.”

He delivered them, each falling into hands eager for whatever nonsense competition they were in for. Hands willing to do whatever ittook to ensure their cut. Because wasn’t that why they’d been putting up with their father’s bullshit for all these years?

But Alice hadn’t put up with it, and so her hands remained empty. She closed them into fists in her lap while envelopes were torn open around the room—the sound of her final punishment.

He’d never forgiven her.

Greta read hers first. “Why?”

Emily stared down at her letter, brow furrowed.

“Fuck this,” Sam said, Sila’s eyes wide as she read over his shoulder. “Fuck this, and fuck him.” He looked up at Jack. “And fuck you too, while we’re at it.”

Jack didn’t flinch. Later, Alice would marvel at his disinterest in her brother’s ire, considering the weight of the moment. As though Sam hadn’t spoken, Jack said, “You’ve each been assigned a task—or series of them—which, upon completion, will activate the distribution of the trust.”

“Why?” It seemed to be all Greta could say.

“It’s the Storm Olympics,” Alice answered. “Dad’s favorite time of year, when he pits his kids against one another and waits for the last one standing.”

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