Three Suitcases Left in the Rain and Nineteen Million Dollars in Cancun
“He is still your son, Cassandra,” Martha said, her voice dropping to a rare, quiet tone.
“And Gordon was his father,” I said, not looking up from the page.
I closed the first section of the draft with a single, dark line. The probate hearing was only six days away, on the fourteenth of November.
“What if she tries to sell the house before then?” Martha asked, her hand gripping the back of my chair.
“She cannot,” I said. “Frank filed the lis pendens yesterday.”
Martha let out a short breath, her fingers tightening on the wood. “I saw her car leave the driveway ten minutes ago. She was driving very fast.”
“She is beginning to realize the bank is not going to approve her second application,” I said.
I turned the page of the notebook, the paper making a crisp, dry sound in the quiet room. I began a new list, writing down the items that had disappeared from the dining room sideboard.
The silver coffee pot was at the top of the list. It was a wedding gift from Gordon’s mother, and I had noticed the tarnish on its handle the day before Sable locked me out.
