“You should have told me,” Ethan whispered.
I held his gaze.
“You should have told me your mother was scheduling inspections on a house she planned to buy with money that never belonged to her.”
Marjorie snapped the real-estate folder closed.
“You selfish little widow-in-waiting.”
Martin’s pen stopped moving.
“Mrs. Reeves, I suggest you choose your words carefully.”
But arrogance had already taken control of the room.
Ethan stood.
“Lydia was emotionally unstable after George became ill,” he said. “I handled things for her. George trusted me.”
Martin glanced toward the cardboard box.
“That statement,” he said, “brings us to Mr. Harper’s final instruction.”
Martin reached into the box and placed Dad’s old phone on the conference table.
The corner of the case was still cracked.
I kept my hands folded in my lap.
Ethan stared at the phone as though something from the grave had just appeared in front of him.
Marjorie frowned.
“What is that?”
“Mr. Harper instructed me to play an audio recording before any further discussion regarding control of his estate.”
Ethan’s chair scraped violently against the floor.
“No.”
Martin looked at him.
Then he pressed play.
For several seconds, there was only static.
Then Ethan’s voice filled the room.
“The old man probably won’t make it another year. Once Lydia inherits, I’ll get her to transfer the farmland first.”
Marjorie’s recorded laughter followed.
