The neighborhood named me before I ever said hello. Gold digger. I was twenty-four, moving into Mr. Halston’s house with a single suitcase and a set of keys his lawyer handed me like evidence. Mr. Halston was sixty-eight, tethered to an oxygen tank, still sharp-eyed, still careful with every word. A new Lexus in the driveway didn’t help. Neither did the curtains he kept closed for his lungs, or the way whispers chased me to the mailbox like they had ownership rights.

I wasn’t there for his money; I was there because he asked for a live-in aide to manage meds, meals, appointments—and to keep his paperwork clean while his breathing grew thin. His attorney interviewed me first and warned me bluntly: when people smell an estate, they don’t behave like neighbors. Mr. Halston only smiled and said, “Let them talk. Talking makes people careless.”

Careless was exactly what they became. In the first week, “kind” visits started—soup at the door, holiday cookies, offers to “help with errands.

” None of it was aimed at Mr. Halston’s comfort; it was aimed at the house. Eyes drifted toward the study. Questions slid toward bank accounts, safes, and wills. One woman I’d never met walked past me as if I were invisible and tried the study door handle, then laughed it off like she’d gotten lost in her own story.

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