“Miriam, the folder from Dad’s estate is gone.”
“I have copies.”
Relief hit so fast I had to grip the desk.
“You do?”
“Of course I do. Your father was a cautious man.”
My eyes filled unexpectedly.
For the first time all day, the tears were not performance.
“I should have called you sooner,” I whispered.
“You are calling now.”
That was Miriam. No wasted comfort. No scolding. Just the next step.
“Anne,” she said, “I need to ask something delicate.”
“All right.”
“Did Lucas ever ask you to sign anything recently? Anything he presented as routine?”
I frowned.
“He asked me to sign updated tax documents last month. I didn’t really read them. He said our accountant needed them.”
“What exactly did you sign?”
“I don’t know.”
“That becomes our first priority.”
After we ended the call, I sat very still.
The house had begun to darken around me. Afternoon slipped toward evening, stretching shadows across the floor. The rooms were neat, familiar, almost serene. There were two coffee mugs in the sink. Lucas’s old running shoes by the mudroom door. A half-read mystery novel on his nightstand.
Marriage was strange that way.
Even when trust died, ordinary things remained.
