Sign the house over to my son, or I’ll have you declared an unfit

Patricia laughed when she saw the envelope. “Sweetheart, whatever your little lawyer told you, my attorneys eat women like you for breakfast.” Kyle snorted into his whiskey. I slid the envelope across the polished wood. “Then you’ll enjoy the reading material,” I said. My voice didn’t shake. It hadn’t shaken in eleven days, ever since I’d found the folder in Daniel’s office safe. Patricia opened it. Her face did something I’d never seen it do before. It emptied. Inside were the deed to the house, yes, but also every wire transfer she had funneled from Daniel’s company account into Kyle’s failing restaurant over the past four years. Two point one million dollars. Signed off under a power of attorney Daniel had revoked six months before he died, on a document she’d forged. Underneath that: the forensic accountant’s report. Underneath that: a letter from the district attorney’s office, dated yesterday, confirming receipt of the same file. “Daniel knew,” I said softly. “He didn’t confront you because he was already sick and he wanted to protect me first. He put the house, the firm, and every asset into a trust I control. You’ve been living in a home I’ve owned for eight months.” Kyle stood up so fast his chair fell. “You can’t—” “I can. You have thirty days to vacate. Patricia, the DA will contact you Monday about restitution. Kyle, the restaurant’s lease is in Daniel’s name. The trust is not renewing it.” Patricia’s hand trembled around the papers. “You would do this to family?” I finally picked up my tea. It was still warm. “You did this to family,” I said. “I just kept the receipts.” I stood, smoothed the black dress Daniel had bought me on our last anniversary, and walked out of the dining room I’d been too polite to decorate for seven years. Behind me, I heard Patricia start to cry. It was the first sound in that house that had ever felt honest.