“She was a traditionalist who valued family above all else.”

“We need to look at that will.”

She reached for her laptop on the coffee table.

“My firm works with a probate lawyer named Jerome Carter,” she said.

“He is sharp, and he knows how to find things people want hidden.”

The next morning, the rain had turned into a thick fog.

The air in Jerome Carter’s office smelled of old paper and leather.

A green banker’s lamp cast a warm glow over a massive mahogany desk.

Jerome sat opposite us, his grey suit immaculate.

He adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses and opened a thick blue binder.

“This is the official copy of Beatrice Collins’s last will and testament,” Jerome said.

His fingers leafed through the heavy, cream-colored pages.

“Your husband’s lawyers sent over a summary, but they left out the addendums,” he murmured.

“Is there something wrong with it?” I asked.

My hands were cold, pressed flat against my knees.

Jerome did not answer immediately.

He turned another page, his index finger tracing a paragraph near the bottom.

The grandfather clock in the corner ticked heavily.

Outside, the city traffic hummed through the thick glass.

Jerome stopped reading.

He looked up, his brow furrowed.

“How long have you and Scott been married, Avery?” he asked.

“Seven years,” I said.

“And he filed for divorce yesterday?”

“Yes,” I nodded.

Jerome tapped a gold pen against the desk.

“This is highly unusual,” he said.

“What is it, Jerome?” Rachel asked, leaning forward.

Jerome leaned back in his leather chair and removed his glasses.

“Beatrice Collins was a very particular woman,” Jerome said.

“She added a codicil three months before she died.”

“A codicil?” I asked.

He turned the binder around so the text faced me.

“Look right here,” Jerome said, pointing to a single, italicized paragraph.

“Your husband thinks he has already won.”