Marlene spun, her pearl earrings swinging. The color drained from her spray-tanned face. “Eliza. What are you—this is a private family matter.” I set my briefcase on the credenza, calm as still water. “It became my matter the moment you tried to coerce a seventy-nine-year-old woman into signing over a three-million-dollar property.” I peeled off my gloves, finger by finger. “Grandma, may I see the documents?” Marlene snatched them up. “She wants to sign. She’s just confused. She doesn’t understand—” “She understands perfectly,” I said. “Which is why she called me twelve hours ago and asked me to record this meeting.” I tapped the small pin on my lapel. Marlene’s mouth opened and closed like a hooked fish. “You can’t—that’s illegal—” “South Carolina is a one-party consent state. Grandma consented. I’m her attorney of record as of nine this morning.” I pulled a folder from my briefcase and slid it across the desk. “And while you were busy threatening her with nursing homes, I filed an emergency petition. Grandma updated her trust last week. The Charleston house, the Beaufort cottage, the investment accounts—all of it goes into an irrevocable family trust. You are not a beneficiary.” Marlene’s lipsticked mouth trembled. “She promised me that house. I’m her daughter.” Grandma stood slowly, gripping her cane, suddenly looking ten years younger. “You stopped being my daughter the day you told my caregiver I’d be ‘easier to manage’ sedated. Did you think Nurse Patty wouldn’t tell me, Marlene? Did you think I was already gone?” Marlene grabbed her Birkin and bolted for the door, heels clattering on the marble. I caught her elbow gently. “One more thing. The forged power of attorney you submitted to Wells Fargo last month? The bank flagged it. The detective is expecting your call by Monday.” She fled into the rain without an umbrella. Grandma laughed, a real laugh, the first I’d heard in years. Then she poured us both sweet tea and said, “Now, sugar, let’s talk about who actually deserves this house.”
