I came back with a slim folder and a pen. Brandon grinned at Tasha like he’d already won. ‘See? I told you she’d be reasonable.’ I sat down, folded my hands, and slid the folder across the table — but not toward him. Toward Tasha. ‘Before you sign anything, dear, you should probably read what your husband signed three weeks ago.’ Her smile cracked. Inside was a printout from the county clerk: a quitclaim deed Brandon had already tried to forge, listing himself as sole owner. My notary friend at the courthouse had flagged it the same morning it was filed. ‘Forgery of a deed is a felony in this state,’ I said softly. ‘I didn’t report it. Yet.’ Brandon’s face went the color of old milk. Then I slid the second document. My updated will. The house, the pension, the seven-figure brokerage account he didn’t know existed — because forty-one years of bonuses, quietly invested, do add up — all redirected to a scholarship fund in my late husband’s name. ‘You told me last Christmas I was ‘financially illiterate,” I said. ‘I let you believe it. It was easier.’ Tasha stood up so fast her chair scraped. ‘You forged her name?’ ‘Babe, it wasn’t like that—’ ‘You were going to put HER in a HOME?’ She grabbed her purse. ‘My mother lives with us, Brandon. MY MOTHER.’ The door slammed. Brandon turned to me, eyes wet now, the little-boy voice creeping back. ‘Mom. Mom, please. I’ll fix it. Just don’t—’ I picked up the coffee pot again. Calm. Steady. The same hands that typed confidential mergers for four decades. ‘You have until Sunday to return every dollar you’ve already ‘borrowed’ from my line of credit. After that, the file goes to the district attorney. And Brandon?’ I poured his cup full, right to the rim. ‘Drink your coffee. It’s the last thing you’ll get from this kitchen.’
