Damien smirked and slid the folder across the counter like he was doing me a favor. “Thomas’s original will,” he announced. “Everything passes to blood relatives. You were never adopted into the Hartley name, Eleanor. You were just the help he married.” A few customers gasped. Mrs. Petrova, my oldest regular, set down her rye loaf and didn’t move. I opened the folder slowly. The will was dated 2009. I almost laughed. Instead, I reached under the counter and pulled out a worn leather binder — the one Thomas kept beside the register, the one Damien never bothered to ask about. “Damien,” I said softly, “Thomas updated his will three times after his diagnosis. The last one was notarized in this bakery, on that table by the window, with Father Llewellyn and our accountant as witnesses.” I slid the new document across. Damien’s lawyer read the first page and went pale. Not only had Thomas left the bakery entirely to me — he had also placed every Hartley family asset Damien had been quietly siphoning into a trust controlled by me, after discovering the forged signatures on their late mother’s estate. “He knew,” I said. “He knew for two years, Damien. He just wanted to see if you’d show up before he died. You didn’t.” Damien’s mouth opened and closed like a fish on dry tile. I nodded to Officer Reyes, who’d been quietly sipping coffee in the corner booth — the same booth Thomas used to read the paper in. “Forgery,” I said. “Embezzlement. The accountant has the files ready.” Damien lunged for the folder. Reyes was faster. As they walked him out past the bread racks, Mrs. Petrova picked her rye loaf back up and said, loud enough for the whole shop, “Eleanor, dear — same time tomorrow?” I tied my apron tighter and smiled. “Same time tomorrow.”
