Hand over the password, Grandma, or we’re putting you in a home where they

I set down my coffee cup very gently. “Tyler, honey,” I said, “why don’t you read me page four of that folder, out loud, for the camera?” He blinked. Brittany lowered the phone an inch. “What?” he said. “Page four,” I repeated. “The transfer authorization. Read whose signature is on the bottom.” He flipped through, and I watched the color drain from his face. Because page four wasn’t a transfer authorization. It was a cease-and-desist letter from Hartwell & Boyd, the firm Walter and I retained back in 2009, addressed to Tyler Matthew Reeves, regarding the forged power of attorney he tried to file at the Mecklenburg County courthouse last March. I’d known for eight months. I’d just been waiting. “The trust isn’t a bank account, sweetheart,” I said. “It’s an irrevocable instrument. The trustee is Margaret Boyd. The beneficiaries, as of the amendment I signed in April, are the Cleveland County Children’s Hospital and a scholarship fund in your grandfather’s name.” Brittany’s phone clattered onto the linoleum. “You can’t,” Tyler whispered. “I already did. Margaret has the recording of your visit in February, by the way. The one where you told me Walter was ‘basically senile anyway.’ She forwarded it to the district attorney this morning, along with the courthouse filing. You should probably call that lawyer back.” Tyler stood there shaking. I picked up my cobbler and slid it onto a cooling rack. “Take your wife and your folder and get off my porch,” I said. “And tell your mother I’ll see her Sunday. She’s getting the farm.” The screen door slammed behind them. I poured myself a fresh cup, sat down by the window where Walter used to read the paper, and finally, after eight long months, I let myself smile.