“I am not acting in haste, Helen,” I said. “I have spent weeks looking at the numbers.”

“The numbers do not grieve.” “The numbers do not lie.”

Helen’s smile faded, replaced by a cold, hard line. She looked at the letter in Marcus’s hands, then back at me.

“Miriam was a complicated woman, Emma,” Helen said, her tone shifting to something more clinical. “She had her secrets.”

“And she had medical issues that she kept very quiet.”

I frowned, looking at her. “What are you talking about?” I asked.

“I am talking about the private care facility she frequented in her final year,” Helen said. “The one where she received treatments that were not related to her physical illness.”

“Treatments that, if made public, would raise serious questions about her mental competency during the time she signed her final will.”

The room went completely silent. Even the rain seemed to quiet against the glass.

Lorna looked from Helen to me, her brow furrowed. “Helen, what are you implying?” Lorna asked.

“I am not implying anything,” Helen said, her voice steady and dangerous. “I am suggesting that we take a recess before we sign any papers.”