I sat in the lawyer’s office feeling like I did not belong there.
The chairs were too soft.
The air smelled faintly of old paper and expensive coffee.
Rain tapped quietly against the windows while a clock somewhere behind me ticked loud enough to make the silence feel deliberate.
Across from me sat Mrs. Rhode’s niece, Diane.
Every few seconds, she looked at me with thinly disguised disgust, like I was mud someone had tracked onto her polished floor. She wore pearl earrings, a cream-colored coat, and the kind of expression wealthy people perfect after years of believing kindness is optional.
The lawyer adjusted his glasses, opened a thick folder, and began reading in a voice so flat it sounded rehearsed.
“The property located on Willow Street is to be donated to Saint Matthew’s Outreach Charity.”
I frowned immediately.
“What?”
He continued without looking up.
“Mrs. Eleanor Rhode’s personal savings accounts are to be divided between Saint Matthew’s Church, veterans’ assistance programs, and several charitable organizations.”
Diane smiled faintly.
The lawyer turned another page.
“To her niece, Diane Rhode-Walker, she leaves her jewelry collection, personal photographs, and antique furniture.”
I sat perfectly still.
