Following my husband’s burial, my son took me down a secluded road and declared, «Here’s where you step out…

He hesitated, then asked softly, “Need to use the phone?”

“If it’s no trouble.”

He led me inside, past shelves of canned fruit and discounted snacks, to a small office. I dialed a number from memory—our family lawyer, William Brooks.

“Abigail?” he answered on the first ring, surprised. “I’ve been trying to reach you. I expected you at the will reading.”

My grip tightened. “What reading?”

A pause. “Ethan presented a will. I had concerns. It didn’t match the file James and I updated last year.”

“I need your help,” I said, voice clear. “And your discretion.”

“You have both. My office, one hour.”

I hung up and turned to Tom. “Do you sell prepaid phones?”

He nodded. “A few. Want one?”

“Yes, and a bottle of water.”

He refused my money. “On the house, Mrs. Harper. You need anything else, just say so.”

His kindness nearly broke me. But I hadn’t cried when I buried James, and I wouldn’t now. I had work to do.

William Brooks’ office was on the second floor of a historic Victorian on Main Street, opposite the town library. He’d been our lawyer for over thirty years. William was the sort who wore cardigans unironically and still valued a firm handshake. His secretary, Clara, gasped softly when she saw me. “Mrs. Harper, Mr. Brooks is expecting you. Water? Coffee?”

“I’m fine, thank you,” I said…