My Wealthy Grandmother Left Me a Single Brass Key and No Inheritance
Mr. Bennett adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses, his eyes scanning the walls with a quiet familiarity that told me he had been here before.
“I parked by the main office to give you a moment alone,” he said, setting his briefcase down on a sturdy oak table in the center of the room.
“Who took these?” I asked, pointing to a photograph of myself walking into the Oakhaven library two winters ago.
“Linda took many of them,” Mr. Bennett said, his voice formal and low.
“And when Linda was busy at the house, your grandmother hired a local agency to ensure you were never entirely unsupervised.”
I cleared my throat, the sound dry in the painted room.
“Unsupervised,” I repeated, looking at a photo of my tiny kitchen window from the street outside.
“She wanted to see if you would hold your ground when things became difficult,” Mr. Bennett said, unbuckling the brass clasps of his briefcase.
“She needed to know if you had the stamina to live without her name protecting you from the world.”
