“Oh, and one more thing.”
I reached into the drawer beneath the silverware and pulled out a thin envelope I had kept beneath the takeout menus for three months.
“Mr. Whitfield says hello.”
Aaron’s pen stopped clicking.
“He’s my grandma’s attorney,” I explained. “I went to him in August. Not because I knew, but because the fourth time Aaron asked me to add him to the deed, something in my stomach went quiet, and I told myself I was being paranoid the whole drive over.”
“But the trust was restructured, anyway. I’m the sole signatory, and it was independently witnessed. The house was never going to be yours, Aaron. Not even for a minute,” I told him.
Diane’s mouth opened, but no words came out.
“You,” I said, turning to her, “have been paying him to guard a door that was already locked.”
Aaron placed the pen down very carefully, as if it might bite him.
“Sandra,” he started. “Baby, listen.”
“Don’t.”
I picked up my wine glass, the one I had set down, and carried it to the sink. I poured it out slowly.
Then I turned back toward the two people who had plotted against me for years.
“Now,” I said. “Let’s talk about what happens next.”
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