There had been more than I knew. Of course there had. Birthdays missed. Dinners “with clients.” A supposed conference weekend in Seattle that was actually Cabo. In one picture, taken through the windshield of a parked car, Becca was laughing with her head thrown back and her hand on Grant’s thigh. The date on the bottom corner was the same day my father started hospice.
I pressed my fist to my mouth and tasted salt where I’d bitten the inside of my lip too hard.
The yellow file held financial statements.
The blue file held copies of my prenup, highlighted sections tabbed like battle plans.
The black file held something that stopped me cold: copies of forms requesting information about my father’s medical capacity, blank power-of-attorney templates, notes in Grant’s handwriting, and an email chain between Grant and someone from his office with the subject line Timing after James.
I stared at it until the letters blurred.
Timing after James.
Not after the funeral. Not after mourning. After James.
The note Dad left on top of that file said only: Blackwood to explain.
A key turned in the front door.
I didn’t move at first. I heard Grant come in—fast steps, then slower when he realized the house was quiet. He called my name once, twice. There was a strange hoarseness in his voice, as if his throat had gone raw trying to stitch together a defense during the drive home.
I closed the black file and stood.
He appeared in the doorway a second later, tie half undone, hair messed from dragging his hands through it. He looked wrecked. Good.
“Natalie,” he said, exhaling like he’d just found a missing child. “Thank God.”
I stared at him from behind my father’s desk. “That’s an odd choice of words.”
“Please don’t do this.”
I actually laughed at that. “Don’t do what? Read? Notice? Finally catch up?”
His eyes dropped to the files. For the first time, I watched fear move through him in real time. It tightened his face from the outside in.
“You went into the safe.”“My father wanted me to.”
He stepped into the room, palms out like I was a frightened animal. “The funeral got out of control. Becca shouldn’t have been there.”
“No,” I said. “She definitely should have been there. It saved me time.”
He flinched.
“I can explain the affair.”
“Can you explain why she was wearing my dress?”
He opened his mouth, closed it, and went for a different lie. “I didn’t know she took it.”