Sleight of Hand by Kate Wilhelm

the bottle down on the end table by his chair. "I guess I'm reeling from too much, too fast," he said. "There's more. We went to the bank with the detective and opened the box. It had Connie's things along with Dad's. The deed to the house, papers, some of her jewelry, Dad's will and a copy of hers. The detective took charge of it all until they straighten out who gets what. Then I went back to Berman's office with him and he told me about the wills. He said she left half of everything to Dad, and the other half to be divided between her family in Virginia and Eve and me. He said it could be over a million dollars!"
    He took another drink, longer this time. "Dad's will makes the same kind of distribution, but names somebody in New Hampshire to split half with us."
    Stephanie, speechless, stared at him. Finally she said. "Are you sure?" It was a whisper.
    "That's what he told me. The detective wanted to know if any of us knew about it before. They probably will ask you, too. I told him I haven't spoken to Dad or seen him in nearly ten years, and Connie never mentioned anything like that to me. I never even knew there was any family in New Hampshire."
    "He told me he would leave you and Eve exactly one thousand dollars each, and a distant cousin in New England would get the rest." As far as Stephanie knew Jay had never met his cousin. "But he will carry on the Wilkins name," Jay had said meanly,
    "which is more than I expect from your fairy kid."
    "Right now it's a real mess," Eric said. "A lot depends on who died first. If it was Connie, and they seemed to imply it was, then her half goes to him, and that plus whatever he had could add up to quite a bundle when they start dividing it up." His eyes gleamed. "Berman said not to start spending it yet because it could take months to work out. But I can't help thinking about it. I'll go to graduate school if it's true."
    And Stephanie couldn't stop thinking about it, either, after Eric left. She was Eve's legal guardian. It would mean an end to money worries, real security for her daughter, the art lessons she needed, helping her toward the goal she had to achieve ultimately: a self-directed, independent existence, free of the threat of being institutionalized and started on the downward spiral to oblivion. The threat was real, sometimes looming near enough to destroy sleep, sometimes receding, but always there. The day Stephanie could no longer pay for Eve's medication, for her hospital care when necessary, the threat would be realized.
    Jay had wanted to place her in an institution at a young age. Stephanie knew that would have been fatal. Two doctors had said what she needed was a stable homelife when she was between her episodes. They always referred to them that way, episodes; lapses into insanity was what they meant. In the beginning, the episodes had been frequent with long periods of hospitalization, six weeks at a time, seven.
    There were weekly sessions with a therapist between episodes.
    Stephanie had homeschooled Eve after two unsuccessful tries in regular classes. Eve could not bear to be with other children rushing about, unpredictable, loud, threatening. She had been a slow reader, and still never read for pleasure.
    Eve's mind struggled to keep things within their own boundaries, but if she lost control for a second, everything she saw merged into shapeless swirling colors rushing at her. Out of control. When she was eight, she froze one day when luncheon guests, strangers, rushed toward her to admire the lovely child. That was the day Jay had turned his back on his daughter. Later, from eleven onward, she collapsed into a fetal heap and refused, or was unable, to move or open her eyes.
    Catatonia. The first time that happened, a neighbor's little black-and-white cocker spaniel, wanting only to play, had run at her in the backyard, and she had fallen to the ground and drawn herself into a ball. That had been her pattern ever since. If she could not control it, she