He unclipped the brass buckles of his briefcase with two sharp clicks.

I stood by the door, my back against the wood, watching my husband’s face pale.

“Emma, you should be at home resting,” Grant said, stepping toward me with a soft, patronizing smile. “We can discuss these administrative details later tonight.”

“I am exactly where I need to be, Grant,” I said.

Marcus pulled a thick stack of stapled documents from his briefcase.

“Three weeks before her passing, Margaret Whitaker executed an amendment to the primary trust,” Marcus announced.

He placed a copy of the document in front of Arthur Bell, then slid another toward Lorna.

“This codicil restricts all major capital transfers and freezes discretionary reallocations,” Marcus said.

“That is impossible,” Helen said, her voice rising. “Margaret was not signing legal documents in her final weeks.”

“She was fully competent, Helen, and the medical evaluations attached to the back of those documents prove it,” Marcus said.

Vanessa looked down at her laptop screen, her fingers moving quickly, though she did not type.