Chapter 4: The Attorney's Name
Daniel and I sat in the kitchen until past eleven.
He told me everything in pieces, the way people do when they're ashamed of how little they questioned at the time.
Our mother had called him to the hospital on a Tuesday afternoon, three weeks before Dad passed.
She had told him the attorney was there to update some paperwork.
She had told him Dad had requested it.
She had handed him a pen and pointed to the line.
"Did you read it?" I asked.
He was quiet for a moment.
"She said there wasn't time.
That Dad was tired and the attorney needed to get back."
"Daniel."
"I know." He looked at his hands.
"I know what I did."
"Did Dad say anything?
While you were there?"
"He was asleep.
She said he'd just signed his portion and drifted off."
I thought about that.
My father, asleep in a hospital bed.
My mother standing over a document.
An attorney with a briefcase and a waiting car.
"I want to talk to Gerald Holt," I said.
"He's been the family attorney for —"
"I know how long he's been the family attorney.
I want to talk to him anyway."
Daniel nodded slowly.
"I'll come with you."
"I need you to do something else first." I slid the document across the table.
"I need you to write down everything you remember about that day.
Who was in the room.
What time it was.
What she said to you word for word.
Everything."
He looked at the document.
Then he picked up a pen from the counter without being asked.
I left him at the table and went to check on Mia.
She was asleep with the lamp still on, one arm around the stuffed rabbit she'd had since she was three.
I turned the lamp off and stood in the doorway for a moment.
She looked so small.
I thought about my mother crouched on the floor beside her.
I thought about what Mia had said — *she said if I told you, no one would believe me anyway.*
A seven-year-old.
She had said that to a seven-year-old.
I pulled the door to and went back downstairs.
Daniel had filled half a page.
I read it over his shoulder.
The details were specific — the time, the room number, the color of the attorney's tie.
His memory was clear.
That was either good or very bad, depending on what Gerald Holt said when we found him.
"One more thing," I said.
"That text she sent you tonight.
Don't delete it."
He looked up.
"Screenshot it.
Send it to yourself and to me.
Right now."
He did it without arguing.
That told me something.
Whatever my brother had done three weeks ago, he was not going to protect her now.
I called Gerald Holt's office the next morning at eight.
His assistant told me he was in meetings until noon.
I left my name and number and said it was urgent and personal.
He called back at twelve-fifteen.
"I've been expecting to hear from you," he said.
That stopped me.
"Have you."
"Your mother told me you might reach out.
She said you were upset about the estate amendment and that you might make some accusations."
My grip on the phone tightened.
"She called you this morning."
"Last night, actually."
So she had moved faster than I had.
She had called Daniel to warn him, then called the attorney to prepare him.
All within an hour of leaving my house.
"Mr.
Holt," I said carefully.
"My father was on two medications that his doctor documented as affecting his cognitive clarity.
He was asleep when my brother arrived at the hospital that day.
I have a witness statement to that effect.
I also have a text message from my mother sent last night asking my brother not to speak to me.
I'm going to need to see the original signed documents, the date and time they were executed, and the name of any other person present in that room."
Silence.
"Mr.
Holt.
Are you still there?"
"I'm here," he said.
His voice had changed.
Something had shifted in it — not guilt exactly, but the sound of a man recalculating.
"I think we should meet in person."
"Tomorrow morning," I said.
"Nine o'clock.
Your office."
He agreed without pushing back.
I hung up and stood in the kitchen for a long moment.
Through the window I could see Mia in the backyard, drawing something in chalk on the paving stones.
She had her tongue between her teeth the way she did when she was concentrating.
My phone buzzed.
A number I didn't recognize.
I answered it.
"Is this the son?" A woman's voice.
Older.
Careful.
"Who is this?"
"My name is Patricia Wren.
I was a nurse on your father's ward.
I don't know if this is the right thing to do.
May you like
But I've been thinking about it since he passed, and I think you should know — I was in the room that afternoon.
When they brought the papers."
