Vivienne uncapped her gold pen with a flourish. ‘Let’s keep this quick. Hannah, dear, there’s a coffee shop downstairs if this is too grown-up for you.’ Her sons laughed. The lawyer, Mr. Adler, cleared his throat and looked at me with an expression I couldn’t quite read. ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘before anyone signs, Miss Hannah has something the court requires us to review.’ Vivienne’s pen froze midair. I walked to the table and placed the leather folder down gently, the way my father used to set down his reading glasses. Inside was a notarized addendum, dated six weeks before his death, witnessed by his oncologist and two nurses who had watched Vivienne cancel visit after visit. He had quietly transferred the controlling shares of Whitaker Holdings — the company, the estate in Connecticut, the building we were sitting in — into a living trust. Sole trustee: me. The ‘inheritance documents’ Vivienne was waving around governed exactly one thing: his personal checking account. Balance, after final medical bills: four hundred and twelve dollars. Vivienne’s face went the color of old paper. ‘That’s — that’s not possible. He promised me—’ ‘He promised you he’d take care of you,’ I said softly. ‘And he did. There’s a monthly stipend in the trust. Enough for the mortgage on the Westport house. Conditional on you not contesting.’ Her older son shot up. ‘You manipulated a dying man!’ ‘No,’ Mr. Adler said, sliding across a sealed envelope. ‘He recorded a video. He’d like you all to watch it.’ On the screen, my father, thin but clear-eyed, smiled at the camera. ‘Vivienne, you stopped visiting in March. Hannah never missed a Sunday. I’m not a fool, my love. I just waited to be sure.’ Vivienne sank into her chair, the diamond bracelet suddenly looking very heavy. I picked up the gold pen she’d dropped, capped it, and slid it back to her. ‘You can keep this,’ I said. ‘It’s the only thing in this room that’s still yours.’
