Hand over the password, sweetheart, or my lawyers bury you by Friday

I slid a thin manila folder across the table. “Before Mr. Avery reads anything,” I said softly, “I think the room should see this.” Diane laughed. “Oh, honey. Don’t embarrass yourself.” Mr. Avery opened the folder. His eyebrows climbed. Inside were three documents. The first: a notarized amendment to my father’s will, dated six weeks before his death, witnessed by his oncologist and his pastor, naming me sole trustee of Sterling & Cole Holdings and the Pasadena estate. The second: bank records showing Diane had wired four hundred and twelve thousand dollars of company funds into a shell account in Trevor’s name over eighteen months. The third: a signed affidavit from Dad’s private nurse, Marisol, stating that Diane had repeatedly tried to coax him into signing blank pages “for tax purposes” while he was on morphine. The color drained from Diane’s face like someone had pulled a plug. Trevor’s phone clattered onto the table. “That’s a forgery,” Diane hissed. “Run the handwriting,” I said. “Run the wire transfers. Run everything.” Mr. Avery looked up gently. “Diane, per the amended trust, you have thirty days to vacate the Pasadena property. The board has also been notified of the financial irregularities. I’d strongly advise retaining separate counsel.” Trevor turned on her. “You said it was handled. You SAID—” “Shut up, Trevor,” she whispered. I stood, smoothing Dad’s cardigan. “You told everyone I was unstable. Funny thing about quiet people, Diane. We listen. We document. We wait.” At the door I paused. “Dad knew. He knew for months. He just wanted to see who’d show up at the reading wearing white.” Outside, the California sun was setting over the parking lot, warm and impossibly gold. I pulled Dad’s old pipe from the cardigan pocket, the one I’d carried every day since the funeral, and finally, finally exhaled.