Sign the house over to me by sunset, or I’ll have your disabled brother

I picked up the pen. I turned it over in my fingers. Then I set it down beside the document, untouched. “Caroline,” I said softly, “before you finish that threat, you should probably meet someone.” I tapped my phone twice. The dining room doors opened, and in walked Mr. Adler, my father’s estate attorney, followed by a woman in a charcoal suit Caroline had never seen before. “This is Diane Park,” I said. “She’s the managing partner at Park and Levinson. I’m the junior associate who spent the last six months helping her prepare a forensic audit of your finances.” Caroline’s smile cracked at the edges. Mr. Adler placed a thick folder on the table. “Your father suspected something was wrong eight months ago,” he said gently. “He changed his will in March. The house, the trust, and Eli’s guardianship fund were placed into an irrevocable protective trust with your daughter as sole trustee. You were never a beneficiary, Mrs. Whitfield. Not of anything.” Caroline’s face drained of color. “That’s impossible. I’m his wife.” “You were,” Diane said. “And you also forged three checks from his recovery account while he was in hospice. We have the bank footage. The district attorney has been notified.” I stood up slowly. “You came into this house and you threatened my brother. A boy who brought you tea every morning even after you called him a burden.” My voice didn’t shake. “You have twenty minutes to pack a bag. Everything else in this house belongs to Eli’s trust. Including the rings on your fingers — those were my mother’s.” She opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again. Upstairs, I heard Eli laugh at something on his record player. I walked to the foot of the stairs and called up, “Hey, buddy. Want to pick what we have for dinner?” “Spaghetti!” he shouted back. I turned to Caroline one last time. “Sunset was your deadline,” I said. “Not mine. The sun’s almost down. I’d start walking.”