Hand over the bakery keys, Grandma, before I have you committed for senility!

Brittany shoved a stapled document at my chest. “It’s a transfer of ownership. Sign it. The bakery belongs to family, not the help.” Aunt Denise smiled like a snake in pearls. “Sweetheart, Walter was confused at the end. You took advantage.” I looked down at the paper. My hands, cracked from years of hot ovens, didn’t tremble. I folded the document neatly and slid it back. “I think we should wait for the attorney,” I said softly. Brittany laughed. “Oh, honey. The attorney works for us now. Tyler’s firm represents the estate.” That’s when the door opened. In walked Mr. Abernathy, Grandpa’s actual lawyer of forty years, carrying a leather folder and a small recorder. Behind him was Detective Rowe from Savannah PD. “Apologies for the delay,” Abernathy said. “Traffic from the courthouse.” He clicked the recorder. Grandpa’s voice filled the room, gravelly and clear: “If anyone presents a transfer document at my service, know that I anticipated this. The bakery, the building, the recipe ledger, and the trust valued at one-point-four million dollars go solely to Hazel Marie Coleman, who earned every crumb. To Brittany and Denise, I leave the lesson that vultures arrive too late to a body that was never theirs.” Brittany’s mouth opened and closed like a landed fish. Tyler went the color of raw dough. Detective Rowe stepped forward. “Ma’am, we’ll also need to discuss the forged power-of-attorney filed last Tuesday under Mr. Coleman’s name. Your husband’s notary stamp is on it.” Aunt Denise sank into a folding chair. I picked up Grandpa’s urn, cradled it against my flour-dusted cardigan, and walked past Brittany. At the door, I paused. “The bakery opens at six tomorrow,” I said. “Don’t bother applying. We don’t hire vultures.” Outside, the Georgia air smelled like rain and cardamom, and for the first time in months, I exhaled.