Then the lawyer, Mr. Whitfield, cleared his throat and pulled a second sealed envelope from his briefcase. “Walter left instructions,” he said, “that this be opened only after the first will was read in full, and only in Hannah’s presence.” The room went quiet in a way I’d never heard before. Diane’s smile froze. Ray leaned forward. Blake stopped filming on his phone. Mr. Whitfield slid on his glasses. “The estate divided in the first document,” he said, “consists solely of the farmhouse, the surrounding forty acres, and one checking account containing four thousand two hundred dollars.” Ray blinked. “What about the mineral rights? The retirement accounts? The Charleston property?” Mr. Whitfield turned a page. “Those assets were transferred, three years ago, into the Walter and Hannah Family Trust. Sole trustee and beneficiary: Hannah Marie Doyle.” He looked at me over his glasses. “That’s approximately eleven point six million dollars, Hannah. Plus the offshore gas royalties.” Diane made a sound like a kettle. “That’s a mistake. That’s fraud. She manipulated him, she was alone with him for years, she’s a nurse, for God’s sake, she—” Mr. Whitfield lifted a small recorder. “Your father anticipated this reaction.” He pressed play. Grandpa’s voice, thin but steady, filled the room. “If you’re hearing this, Diane, it means you already tried to take it from her. You couldn’t come to Sunday dinner, but you came to the reading. Hannah stayed. Hannah gets to keep staying. Don’t call her. Don’t write her. The farmhouse is yours to fight over. Enjoy the tractor.” I set the mug down on the table. I finally looked at Diane. “I’ll go make that coffee now,” I said. “You can let yourselves out before it’s ready.”
