Four Minute Phone Call Exposed My Husband and My Best Friend
I signed my name at the bottom of the attorney’s receipt, my signature steady and clear. Margret took the pen back and placed the papers inside the leather-bound estate folder, closing the cover with a quiet thud.
“You should keep this in the house safe,” Margret said, handing the folder to me. “The legal files are complete.”
“Thank you, Margret,” I said.
“Your father would be pleased with how you handled this, Laura,” she said, her voice softening for a rare moment. “You did not let them push you into a corner.”
I walked with her to the door, watching her step out into the cool afternoon. When she was gone, I carried the leather-bound estate folder down the hallway to the small library. I opened the floor safe behind the bookcase, slid the folder inside next to my father’s old journals, and turned the dial until the lock clicked.
At five o’clock, the sky began to turn a deep, bruised purple. I walked up the stairs to the master bedroom and opened the French doors that led to the balcony. The autumn air was cold, smelling of salt and wet cedar.
