Derek sighed like I was a slow child. “Take your time. We have all night.” I turned the first page, then the second. My hand didn’t shake. It hadn’t shaken in sixty years, not even when Harold was dying and I held his hand through the last breath. Derek didn’t know that three weeks ago, my neighbor Ruth had driven me to the county courthouse. He didn’t know I’d spent four hours with Harold’s old attorney, a sharp woman named Priya who used to bring her kids to my bakery for free cinnamon rolls. He especially didn’t know about the small black recorder tucked inside the brooch on my collar. I set the papers down gently. “Megan, sweetheart. Look at me.” She finally did. Her eyes were red. “Did you know he called the state home already? Before you two even walked in?” Derek’s smile flickered. “That’s a lie.” I pulled out my phone and pressed play. His own voice filled the room: “Yeah, we’ll have her signed and shipped by Wednesday. The bakery alone clears three hundred grand.” Megan’s coffee cup hit the saucer so hard it cracked. The doorbell rang. I’d timed it perfectly. Priya walked in with two officers and a folder thicker than the Bible. “Mrs. Whitaker,” she said warmly, “the emergency guardianship petition Derek filed last Tuesday has been denied. And the forged power of attorney he submitted? That’s a felony in this state.” Derek stood up so fast his chair tipped. “Megan, tell them—” But Megan was already crying into her hands, whispering, “Mama, I didn’t know about the forgery. I swear I didn’t know.” I reached across the table and took my daughter’s hand. “Then you come home, baby. Just you.” As the officers walked Derek out, I slid one last document toward Megan. The deed to the bakery, in her name, dated a month ago. “Harold always said you had flour in your veins,” I whispered. “Now go preheat the ovens. We open at six.”
