Chapter 5: What They Were Really After
Gerald called me on a Friday morning, and I could tell from the first word that something had changed.
"Sienna.
I need you to come in today if you can."
"What happened?"
"I received a letter this morning.
From an attorney representing your father."
I set down the pen I was holding.
"My father doesn't have an attorney."
"He does now.
A man named Phillip Crest, out of a firm in Henrico County.
The letter is a formal inquiry into the terms of Julian's estate.
Specifically, it raises a question about whether Julian's estate plan may have been established under undue influence."
The words landed slowly, one at a time.
"They're claiming Julian was manipulated," I said.
"Into leaving everything to me."
"That is the implication, yes."
I was at Gerald's office within the hour.
He slid the letter across the desk.
I read it twice.
It was three pages of careful legal language, but the meaning underneath was simple: my father was claiming that Julian, in the final years of his life, had been emotionally isolated from outside counsel and family influence — and that his estate plan may not have reflected his true intentions.
"This is not a lawsuit," Gerald said.
"Not yet.
It's a probe.
They're testing whether there's anything to find."
"There isn't."
"I know that.
But I want you to understand what they're doing." He leaned forward slightly.
"This kind of inquiry is designed to make the process expensive and exhausting enough that the surviving spouse agrees to a settlement.
They don't necessarily expect to win in court.
They expect you to get tired."
I looked at the letter again.
At my father's name in the third paragraph.
"How long has he been planning this?"
"The retainer with Crest's firm was signed six weeks ago."
Six weeks ago.
While my mother was calling to suggest a family dinner.
While Eleanor was saying she never knew what to say in situations like this.
"They knew about the estate," I said.
"Someone told them something.
Enough to move quickly."
I thought about Cousin Patricia.
My car outside the law firm.
The phone call to my aunt.
The chain of whispers that had traveled from a parking lot observation to a signed legal retainer in six weeks.
"What do I do?" I asked.
Gerald's expression didn't change.
"You let me respond.
And you don't take any calls from your family without telling me first."
I nodded.
"There's one more thing." He opened a second folder.
"Julian's parents.
His father, Robert Vance.
I contacted him this morning as a courtesy, because his name appears in the trust documents as a secondary reference.
He was not pleased."
"About the inquiry?"
"About your family's involvement." Gerald paused.
"He asked me to tell you that he intends to make a statement in support of the estate plan if it becomes necessary.
He said —" Gerald glanced at his notepad again, the same habit he had when he was quoting directly.
"He said: 'Julian chose Sienna.
That choice stands.
Anyone who wants to argue otherwise will have to argue with me first.'"
My eyes burned.
I pressed two fingers against the bridge of my nose and held them there.
"Tell him thank you," I said, when I could speak again.
"I will."
I drove home through Friday afternoon traffic, slower than usual.
At a red light on Broad Street, my phone lit up on the passenger seat.
My father's name on the screen.
I watched the light turn green.
I pulled forward.
I did not pick up.
When I got home, there was a voicemail.
I played it once, standing in the hallway with my coat still on.
My father's voice was calm.
Reasonable.
The same voice he had used when he told me he couldn't come to the funeral.
*"Sienna, I think there's been a misunderstanding.
We're not trying to cause trouble.
We just want to make sure Julian's wishes are being honored correctly.
That's all any of us want.
Call me back when you're ready to talk like adults."*
I deleted the message.
May you like
Then I sat down at the kitchen table and wrote three pages of notes — every conversation, every date, every detail I could remember — and emailed them to Gerald before midnight.
I was not going to get tired.
