“That is for my son.”
“I’m his wife.”
“You are not Darnell.”
Her jaw tightened.
“You can’t keep family information from us.”
I almost smiled at the word family again, but there was nothing funny in me.
“Harold has the original,” I said.
“You can talk to him.”
She stared at me.
That was the first moment I understood why she had come.
It was not grief that had brought her through my door.
It was uncertainty.
She and Darnell had expected something.
Maybe they had talked about the house.
Maybe they had talked about Diane’s savings.
Maybe they had simply assumed that death would produce paperwork, and paperwork would produce money.
Whatever they had expected, Diane had anticipated it.
Her wife’s final decision had not been revenge.
It had been protection.
Protection for the man she knew would be sitting alone after everyone else went home.
Darnell’s wife picked up her handbag.
“This is ridiculous.
Darnell would never force you out of your home.”
I looked at her.
“I didn’t say he would.”
She froze.
Neither of us spoke for several seconds.
Then she said, “You’re twisting this.”
“No.
I’m reading what Diane signed.”
“She was sick.”
The words landed harder than she seemed to expect.
I stood.
“Be careful.”
“I’m saying maybe she wasn’t thinking clearly.”
“Harold witnessed it.”
“That doesn’t mean—”
“He was her attorney for years.”
Her face flushed.
She turned away and walked toward the mantel, where a photograph showed Diane laughing at a summer barbecue.
Darnell stood beside her in the picture, younger, one arm around his mother’s shoulders.
His wife stared at it.
“She loved him.”
“I know.”
“Then why would she do this?”
That question finally sounded less like an accusation and more like fear.
I looked at the letter in my hand.
“I think that answer is for Darnell.”
She left without saying goodbye.
Less than an hour later, my phone rang.
Darnell.
I watched his name flash across the screen.
For ten days, there had been nothing.
Now the phone rang three times in a row.
I answered the fourth call.
“What did Mom sign?” he demanded.
