I unfolded the letter beneath the white roses while Brenda waited on the phone.
For several seconds, I couldn’t make myself read beyond the first line.
Paige, if you are holding this, then someone has probably shown their hand sooner than I expected.
My father’s handwriting slanted slightly toward the right, the same way it had on birthday cards, grocery lists and the little notes he used to leave on my windshield whenever he changed my oil without telling me.
I pressed the page flat against my knee.
“Paige?” Brenda asked softly.
“I’m here.”
“Keep reading.”
I swallowed.
Dad had written that during the last months of his illness, he had become aware that Keith was asking increasingly specific questions about the estate.
At first, he had dismissed it as concern.
Keith had been part of our family for fifteen years, even if that family had ended badly.
Then the questions changed.
Had Dad updated his will?
Was the house paid off?
Were the gardens included in the same parcel as the main residence?
Would Kyle inherit jointly with me?
Could a former son-in-law be named as a beneficiary?
My stomach tightened with every sentence.
Dad wrote that he had deliberately answered almost none of those questions.
But Keith had not been the only one asking.
Kyle had begun visiting more often during Dad’s final months.
He offered to organize paperwork.
He volunteered to pick up medication.
He asked whether Dad wanted help reviewing financial documents.
Dad loved Kyle, but he noticed patterns.
So had Brenda.
The next paragraph made my chest ache.
I do not believe your brother understands how far this has gone.
Kyle has always wanted everyone to approve of him, and Keith knows how to make a person feel important when he needs something.
Do not confuse weakness with hatred.
But do not ignore what weakness can cost.
I closed my eyes.
That sounded exactly like my father.
Even while protecting me, he was protecting Kyle from the worst possible interpretation of what he had done.
“What else?” Brenda asked.
I continued.
Dad said he had become especially concerned after overhearing Keith and Justine discussing the estate during a Sunday visit.
They apparently believed his illness had made him confused and dependent.
They spoke as if the property was already available to be divided.
According to the letter, Justine wanted the house renovated and the gardens reduced because maintaining them would be expensive.
My eyes moved toward the white roses.
So her threat that morning had not been spontaneous.
She had been planning it before my father was even dead.
My hands began shaking again.
Near the bottom of the page, Dad wrote one final instruction.
The key taped inside the envelope belonged to a small locked drawer in the desk of his garden office.
I was to open it only with Brenda present or while speaking with her.
I stood immediately.
“Brenda, I’m going to the office.”
“I expected you would.”
Her voice had changed.
There was sadness in it now, but something else too.
Preparedness.
“Did Dad tell you about this?” I asked.
“He told me enough.”
