I set down my teacup so gently it didn’t make a sound. “Tyler, honey,” I said, “before I sign anything, could you read the top line out loud? My eyes aren’t what they used to be.” He rolled his eyes but humored me. “Transfer of deed from Eleanor M. Whitaker to Tyler J. Whitaker.” I nodded slowly. “That’s the problem, sweetheart. The deed isn’t in my name.” Brittany’s phone lowered. The lawyer’s pen stopped moving. “Frank put the farm in a family trust in 2003,” I continued, folding my napkin into a neat square. “I’m not the owner. I’m the trustee. And the beneficiaries are the four grandchildren — equally — but only the ones who complete a written character clause your grandfather insisted on.” Tyler laughed, but it cracked halfway. “What character clause?” I reached into my cardigan pocket and pulled out a folded letter, yellowed at the edges. Frank’s handwriting. “Any grandchild who attempts to coerce, threaten, or institutionalize their grandmother forfeits their share entirely. Frank was a quiet man, Tyler. But he wasn’t a stupid one.” The lawyer went pale and began quietly packing his briefcase. Brittany hissed, “You’re bluffing.” I slid a business card across the table — Harold Menendez, estate attorney, Springfield. “Call him. He drafted it. I called him this morning at six, right after I recorded our little breakfast conversation on the baby monitor in the hallway.” Tyler’s face drained. “You recorded—” “Your sister Hannah drove down last night,” I added softly. “She’s been sleeping in the guest room. She heard everything too.” Hannah stepped out from the hallway in her pajamas, arms crossed. Tyler stood up so fast his chair fell backward. I picked up my tea again. “The state facility has visiting hours on Sundays, dear. I’ll bring you cake.”
