Did you really think a hospice nurse could afford to keep this house, sweetheart?

Brielle slid a stapled document across the island toward me. ‘We’ve drafted a generous buyout. Forty thousand, and you keep the furniture. Mama thinks the house should stay in the Whitlock bloodline, and honestly, Hannah, you were only married three years. You’re not really… family family.’ Trent nodded like a bobblehead. The realtor friend smiled the way realtors smile at funerals. I set my bag down slowly. Pulled out the leather folder I’d been carrying since the lawyer’s office that morning. ‘Funny you mention the bloodline,’ I said. ‘Because Marcus updated his estate eighteen months ago. After the Thanksgiving where you called me the help.’ Brielle’s smile flickered. I opened the folder. ‘The house was never marital property. He bought it outright in 2019, before we met, and placed it in a revocable trust. Last year, he made that trust irrevocable. Sole beneficiary — me.’ I slid a second page forward. ‘And this is the letter from his attorney confirming that any Whitlock attempting to coerce, harass, or pressure the beneficiary forfeits their share of his investment account. The one with your name on it, Brielle. Three hundred and twelve thousand dollars.’ The acrylics stopped tapping. Trent’s mouth opened, then closed. The realtor suddenly remembered a call he had to take and walked outside. ‘Marcus knew you,’ I said quietly. ‘He knew the second he got sick, you’d come for the walls before the body was cold. He told me, Hannah, if Brielle shows up with paperwork, hand her this.’ I placed the final envelope in front of her. Inside was a handwritten letter. I didn’t need to read it; I’d watched him write it through chemo, hands shaking. Brielle’s eyes moved across his words, and her whole face collapsed. ‘Get out of my kitchen,’ I said. ‘You can keep the casseroles.’ She left her designer purse on the counter in the rush. I mailed it back the next morning — along with a copy of the trust, highlighted, just in case she forgot.