The first thing Richard Vale left me after his death was not money.
It was a key.
Small.
Brass.
Scratched along one edge.
It lay inside a walnut box on his attorney’s desk while Richard’s three adult children watched me with expressions ranging from amusement to open contempt.
Rebecca laughed first.
It was a quiet little sound, almost polite.
But I knew exactly what it meant.
She thought her father had humiliated me from beyond the grave.
I sat across from her with my hands folded tightly in my lap, still wearing the black dress I had worn to Richard’s funeral less than two hours earlier.
Rain streaked the windows behind attorney Samuel Mercer.
Richard had once told me Samuel had handled his legal affairs for thirty-six years and had probably prevented him from making “at least fourteen spectacularly stupid decisions.”
Now Samuel looked exhausted.
Older than he had the week before.
