I looked through the doorway at Allison as she whispered sharply to Marcus.
“They’re here,” I said.
They did not wait until Tuesday.
Three days later, on a gloomy Friday morning, Marcus and Allison returned to Maplecrest Lane. This time, they were not alone.
From the window, I watched four people come up my walkway. Allison, looking triumphant. Marcus, a step behind her like a reluctant shadow. A man in a crisp pinstriped suit carrying a leather briefcase. And a woman with a severe haircut holding a thick medical clipboard.
I unlocked the front door and opened it before they reached the top step.
“Walter,” Allison said smoothly, walking past me without being invited. “We brought Dr. Pierce to you. It seemed less stressful than making you travel. And this is Mr. Carter, our family attorney.”
Mr. Carter gave me a tight, predatory smile. “Mr. Brooks. We have a court order for a preliminary mental competency evaluation. Your son has expressed serious concerns about your ability to live independently and manage your finances after your wife’s sudden pa:ssing.”
They had moved quickly. They wanted me flustered, angry, and defensive, exactly the kind of behavior that would support a claim of instability.
“Come in,” I said calmly, gesturing toward the living room.
For the next two hours, my own living room became an interrogation room. Dr. Pierce sat across from me, pen ready over her clipboard, asking questions meant to catch my mind slipping.
“Mr. Brooks, can you tell me what day of the week it is?”
“Can you name the current President?”
“If you smelled smoke in the house, what exact steps would you take?”
They asked about Linda’s de:ath, poking at the wound, watching my face to see whether grief would break me into some hysterical, unmanageable mess.
I answered every question with cold precision. Linda had taught me through her letters that documentation mattered, but composure mattered even more.
While they questioned me, I kept watching Allison from the corner of my eye. She wandered through my house, dragging her hands over the furniture like a queen inspecting newly conquered land. She opened the hallway closet. She touched the piano keys. She was already spending the money she thought she was about to steal.
Finally, Dr. Pierce lowered her clipboard. Mr. Carter leaned forward and unlatched his briefcase.
“Mr. Brooks, given your son’s concerns about your financial ability, we believe it is in your best interest to sign a temporary power of attorney over to Marcus and Allison while the final results of this evaluation are pending. It will simply allow them to pay your bills and manage your assets while you grieve.”
He slid a dense legal document onto my coffee table, right beside Linda’s favorite coasters.
I looked at the papers. Then I looked at Marcus.
“Is this what you want, son?” I asked quietly.
Marcus opened his mouth, but Allison cut in. “It’s what you need, Walter. Please, just sign it. Don’t make this ugly.”
I folded my hands in my lap and leaned back in my chair. “I think it’s time to make that phone call,” I said.
“Walter,” Allison hissed, dropping the sweet act completely. “There is no one you can call who can override a court-ordered—”
The doorbell rang.
It did not simply ring. It buzzed with long, sharp urgency. I stood, walked to the door, and opened it wide.
Thomas Ellery stepped inside. He was not alone.
Behind him came a tall, broad-shouldered man in a leather jacket: Grant Miller, the private investigator. Behind Grant stood a woman in a navy windbreaker with a gold badge clipped to her belt: Detective Maria Coleman from the Cleveland Police Department’s Financial Cr!mes Unit.
Allison’s face changed. It was barely noticeable, but unmistakable. The color drained from her cheeks, leaving her pale beneath her expensive makeup. It was the expression of a flawless plan crashing straight into reality.
