I polished Robert’s silver.
I fried the eggs exactly the way he used to like them.
Then I opened the cabinet holding the china we hadn’t used since his funeral.
One plate.
Two.
Three.
Four.
The fourth place setting faced the doorway.
At exactly eight-fifteen, footsteps approached from the guesthouse.
Daniel’s voice floated through the hall.
“Once she signs, everything belongs to us.”
Marissa gave a nervous laugh.
But then the front door opened.
A stranger stepped inside carrying a folder of his own.
Daniel stopped walking.
The color drained from Marissa’s face.
I lifted my coffee cup and looked directly at her.
“Tell him what you promised me last night.”
Her mouth fell open.
Daniel turned toward his wife slowly.
“What did you promise her?”
Marissa’s eyes flicked toward the fourth chair—and the sealed envelope resting on its plate.
The envelope did not move, but Marissa did.
She took one step backward, and the heel of her slipper caught against the edge of the rug. Daniel reached for her elbow, not to steady her but to keep her from leaving.
The stranger set his folder beside the coffee pot.
He was in his late fifties, with silver hair, a dark wool coat, and the calm, watchful expression of someone accustomed to being underestimated. He looked at my cheek first, then at Daniel’s hand.
“My name is Arthur Bell,” he said. “I represent the estate of Robert Hale.”
Daniel’s fingers tightened around Marissa’s arm.
“My father’s estate was settled years ago.”
Arthur looked at me.
