When heiress Natalia Kravitz hires Jack Colder "before probate freezes the house," he walks into a grief-polished mansion where every camera blinks and every smile lies. Her father died "of a heart attack" in the library, but the wall safe behind the Rothko says otherwise: a dried smear on the scanner, failed attempts at 8:09, and a body man who "was crying" in the guest house.
Colder can crack steel; the problem is people. Natalia name-drops Elena to get him through the gate, flirts past the truth, and, when the door thunks open, snatches a leather folio that changes her face from sad to calculating. What she hands Colder instead is a black case-three USBs, two keys, and a nameless phone with one message: Call when he's in the ground. Use the name Elena gave you. Don't use the house line.
Glass House is a rain-slick PI noir of art, inheritance, and leverage-probate clocks ticking, lawyers circling, a "spider" aunt, a loyal body man who might not be, and a client using Colder as a signal to the people who think they own her. The question isn't whether the safe opens-it's who already bled on it, and what Natalia just decided to bury before the court arrives.
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