A tall man in a tailored charcoal suit stood in the doorway.

He carried a thick black leather briefcase in his right hand.

I recognized his sharp, hawkish features instantly.

It was Harold Vance, the Brooks family estate attorney.

He looked at Rachel, then turned his cold, calculating gaze directly to me.

“Mrs. Brooks,” Vance said, stepping into the room without invitation. “We need to discuss your husband’s current assets.”

The phone in his breast pocket began to buzz loudly against his chest.

He did not answer it, but the screen flashed a bright, persistent blue light through the thin fabric of his suit.

“Mr. Vance,” I said, my voice raspy from the smoke and pain. “You are not welcome here.”

Vance smiled, a thin, bloodless line that did not reach his eyes.

“I am here as a representative of the Brooks estate, Natalie,” he said.

He set his briefcase on the bedside rolling table, sliding my plastic water pitcher aside.

“Ethan’s family has interests to protect,” he added.

Rachel stepped between Vance and my bed, her hands resting on her white doctor’s coat.