Halfway through, she stopped.
Her expression changed.
“What?”
She pointed near the bottom.
“What does this mean?”
There was a sentence I had
overlooked.
Before you sign the deed, please speak with Evelyn.
There is something she deserves to tell you herself.
A cold feeling entered my stomach.
Evelyn.
Margaret’s daughter.
I had met her maybe seven times in eight years.
She lived two states away.
She was elegant, efficient, always moving quickly.
Our conversations rarely lasted more than a minute.
“Maybe it’s legal stuff,” I said.
But I didn’t believe it.
The next morning, my phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
“Carly?”
I recognized
“Evelyn?”
“Mom said she gave you the envelope.”
“She did.”
A pause.
“I need to speak with you.”
I looked at Willa across the kitchen.
“About what?”
“Not on the phone.”
My fingers tightened.
“Is something wrong with the house?”
