Grant swore in the background.
Vanessa’s breathing turned fast and shallow.
“Dad?”
“No,” Dad replied. “You called me Harold’s father a moment ago. You announced my death. You divided my property. You changed the locks on my house. You arranged my funeral.”
“I—I thought—”
“You thought I was dead.”
Dad’s voice remained quiet, but every word landed with the weight of something set carefully on a table.
“I thought you were in the hospital,” Vanessa said. “Harold told me you had collapsed.”
Dad glanced at me.
His eyes were no longer pale. They were steady now.
“Harold told you I had collapsed?”
“He said you were unconscious. He said the doctors didn’t expect you to make it through the night.”
“And yet you found my will.”
“I was upset. I was confused.”
“You were laughing.”
Vanessa stopped speaking.
Grant came closer to the phone. His voice had lost its amusement.
“Mr. Mercer, this is a misunderstanding.”
“Is that what you call it?”
“We were told you were gone.”
“By whom?”
Another silence followed.
Dad’s thumb pressed against the side of the phone.
“By whom, Grant?”
“Nobody is trying to hurt you.”
“I didn’t ask what nobody was trying to do.”
His gaze moved toward the window, where winter light rested against the glass.
“I asked who told you I was dead.”
Grant didn’t answer.
Dad ended the call.
