Chapter 4: The First Will
I showed the message to Dot.
She read it twice.
Her expression didn't change, but she set the phone down on the table carefully, the way you set something down when you want time to think.
"Do you know who that is?" I asked.
"No," she said.
"But I think you should go."
"You're not coming?"
"I'll stay here," she said.
"If you're not back in ten minutes, I'm coming out."
I walked back through the restaurant.
Dad and Lisa were still near the gift table — Lisa's voice had dropped now, tight and controlled, and she was speaking close to Dad's ear.
Neither of them saw me pass.
Outside, the evening air was cooler than I expected.
The car park was half-lit, a row of low lamps along the far edge.
A woman was standing near the second lamp, alone, in a dark coat.
She was perhaps sixty, with short grey hair and the kind of stillness that comes from having waited a long time for something.
"You're the daughter," she said when I reached her.
Not a question.
"Yes," I said.
"Who are you?"
"My name is Patricia Hale," she said.
"I'm a paralegal.
I was employed by the firm your father used when your mother first wrote her will — the original one, before she changed it."
I waited.
"Your father came to the office alone," Patricia said.
"About fourteen months ago.
He said your mother had authorized a change to the beneficiary clause.
He had a document.
It looked correct.
Our supervising solicitor was on leave, and the junior who handled it didn't question it."
"What kind of change?" I said.
"The house," she said.
"And a savings account.
Both redirected to your father as sole beneficiary, with a secondary transfer to a joint account he held with another party."
"Lisa," I said.
Patricia nodded.
"The document he brought in," I said.
"Was it real?"
She looked at me steadily.
"Your mother's signature was on it.
But when she came in herself two weeks before she p\*ssed — with her friend, the older woman — she brought her own copy of the original will.
She showed our supervising solicitor the discrepancy.
The signature on your father's document didn't match her current signature.
It was close.
But not exact."
My hands were cold.
"He forged it."
"The supervising solicitor referred the matter to a specialist.
The assessment was completed after your mother p\*ssed.
The conclusion was that the document your father submitted was not authentic." Patricia reached into her coat pocket and took out a card.
"The firm reported it.
There is an open file.
The investigator assigned to it has been waiting for a family member to come forward."
I took the card.
The name on it was a detective's name, and below it, a direct number.
"Why didn't anyone contact me?" I said.
"We didn't have your details," she said.
"We only had your father's.
And he was not going to provide them."
A burst of noise came from inside the restaurant — raised voices, the sound of a chair moving.
Through the glass doors, I could see people standing up from their tables.
"How did you know to come today?" I asked.
"I've been watching the case file," Patricia said.
"When I saw the wedding announcement in the local paper, I thought — if his daughter doesn't know, she should." She paused.
"I'm sorry it took this long."
I looked at the card in my hand.
"Is the file still open?" I said.
"Yes," she said.
"It's been open for four months.
They need a formal statement from a family member to move it forward."
Inside, the noise was getting louder.
Through the glass I could see Dad moving toward the exit.
"I need to go back in," I said.
"I know," Patricia said.
"Call that number tomorrow morning.
Tell them Patricia Hale sent you.
They'll know the file."
I turned back toward the doors.
Dad pushed through them before I reached them.
He stopped when he saw me.
His eyes went to Patricia, then back to me.
Something moved across his face — not guilt, not quite.
Something more calculated than that.
"Who is she?" he said.
"Nobody you need to worry about," I said.
"Don't do this," he said.
His voice had shifted again — softer now, almost reasonable.
"Whatever you think you're doing, it's not too late to stop.
We're family.
Your mother is gone.
Fighting over this won't bring her back.
It will only hurt you."
I looked at him.
"You forged her signature," I said.
The softness left his face instantly.
"You don't know what you're talking about," he said.
"There's an open file," I said.
"There has been for four months.
They've been waiting for me."
He said nothing.
His jaw tightened.
"I'm going to call them tomorrow morning," I said.
He stepped closer.
His voice dropped to almost nothing.
"If you make that call," he said, "I will make sure that will is contested so hard there will be nothing left by the time the lawyers are finished.
You'll spend every penny fighting it and end up with less than you started with.
Is that what you want?"
I held his gaze.
"Yes," I said.
"If that's what it takes."
I walked past him and back through the doors.
May you like
Behind me, I heard Patricia's footsteps moving quietly toward the car park.
And behind me, I heard my father say nothing at all.
