Samantha nodded graciously, like a queen granting permission for proceedings to begin.
Harold adjusted his glasses and began to read.
“I, Andrew Morrison, being of sound mind and body, do hereby revoke all prior wills and codicils…”
My spine went rigid.
Sound mind and body.
The date at the top of the page caught my eye.
November first.
My stomach tightened.
On November first, Andrew had been unconscious, his breathing controlled by machines, his body sedated so deeply the nurses whispered around him like he was already gone.
Harold continued, voice smooth, confident.
“…and leave the entirety of my estate, including all real property, liquid assets, and business interests, to my beloved wife, Samantha Morrison, to be distributed at her sole discretion to our children.”
Samantha let out a soft sigh, the kind meant to sound emotional but landed as satisfied.
Harold turned a page.
“And as for Cecilia Moss, spouse of Justin Morrison…”
I felt Justin shift beside me.
“…she is acknowledged as an outsider to this family’s legacy and has contributed nothing to its success. Therefore, she is to receive no portion of the estate.”
For a moment, the room was perfectly still.
Then Danielle broke the silence with a sharp laugh.
“Oh thank God,” she said, clapping once. “Finally.”
Mark grinned and slapped Justin on the shoulder. “Guess we’re shopping sooner than expected.”
Justin exhaled, long and slow, like someone who had been holding his breath for years. Relief softened his face. He did not look at me.
Samantha turned toward me, eyes glinting with triumph.
“You see, Cecilia,” she said gently, as if explaining something to a child. “Blood matters. It always does. You were useful while Andrew needed a nursemaid, but that was temporary.”
She reached into her clutch and pulled out a small ring of old iron keys. They were dull, worn, ugly things.
“I’m not cruel,” she continued. “You have nowhere to go. So I’m offering you the potting shed. It has water. You can stay there if you make yourself useful.”
She let the keys fall.
They clattered onto the hardwood floor at my feet.
“You’ll handle the laundry,” she said. “Including delicates. You’ll cook. You’ll clean. You’ll earn your keep.”
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