Brittany rolled her eyes and repeated it louder, like I was deaf instead of just patient. Trevor added that the assisted living facility in Rutland had a bed open Monday, and that ‘realistically’ the farmhouse was wasted on me. I nodded. I told them I understood completely. Then I pulled the envelope from my back pocket and set it gently between the sugar bowl and the creamer.
‘Before you drive me anywhere,’ I said, ‘you should know I had lunch with Harold Finch on Tuesday.’ Brittany’s face flickered. Harold was my attorney. Trevor’s smirk wobbled. ‘The trust your mother and I set up in 2009,’ I continued, ‘has a morality clause. Specifically, it dissolves your inheritance entirely if either beneficiary attempts to seize control of my assets or relocate me against medical advice. My physician signed off Wednesday that I’m sharper than both of you combined.’
Brittany laughed, but it cracked halfway out. ‘You’re bluffing.’
I slid the second page toward her. The notarized signatures. The witness from the bank. The clause highlighted in yellow marker, because Harold knows I like things tidy.
‘The farmhouse,’ I said, ‘now belongs to the Veterans’ Housing Initiative upon my passing. The investment accounts, two-point-three million, are redirected to a scholarship in your mother’s name. You get the porcelain dog from the upstairs bathroom. She always said you liked it.’
Trevor stood up so fast his chair scraped. ‘Walter, let’s be reasonable—’
‘I am being reasonable. You came to my home, sat at my wife’s table, and tried to cage me. So I uncaged everything you were counting on.’ I stood, brushed the garden dirt off my palms onto a dish towel, and opened the front door. ‘The drive back to Boston is four hours. I’d start now, sweetheart. Traffic on the Mass Pike is brutal after five.’
Brittany didn’t cry until she reached the car. I watched from the porch, coffee still warm in my hand, and for the first time in months, the house felt like mine again.
