The paper looked crisp, but the implications were heavy enough to make the air in the room feel thick.

“My mother was sharp until her very last breath, Helen,” I said.

My voice was steady, though my heart hammered against my ribs.

Helen smiled, a thin, bloodless line that did not reach her cold eyes.

“The medical community might disagree,” Helen replied.

She tapped the edge of the folder against her manicured fingernails.

“This contains three separate psychiatric evaluations from her final six months,” she said.

“They paint a very detailed picture of severe cognitive decline and paranoia.”

“They show she was entirely incompetent when she signed the final amendments to the foundation’s trust.”

I felt the blood drain from my face.

The physician who had treated my mother in her final days was Dr. Kenneth, a lifelong friend of the Caldwell family.

“You had Dr. Kenneth write these,” I said, my knuckles turning white as I gripped the edge of my desk.

“You forced him to fabricate these reports.”

“Prove it,” Helen whispered.

She took a step closer, the scent of her expensive lavender perfume filling the space between us.