“Margaret,” he said, “if anything ever happens to me, promise me you won’t sign anything without showing it to David Klein.”
“Sign what?” I asked, forcing a nervous laugh. “Don’t talk like that.”
He opened his mouth to explain—
—but Michael walked in, and the moment died right there.
At the time, I dismissed it.
At the funeral, with the note hidden in my purse, I realized Robert hadn’t been speaking lightly.
After the burial, as the cold October wind cut through us at the cemetery, Michael stayed close to me like a shadow.
“Mom, you should come stay with us tonight,” he insisted. “You shouldn’t be alone.”
Lily quickly added, “Yes, Mom. We already set up the guest room.”
That made me pause.
“You already set it up?”
She blinked. “Well… just in case.”
I said nothing. I simply tightened my grip on my purse.
There was another line in Robert’s note:
Don’t go with them. Call David Klein.
David—my husband’s attorney. His closest friend for decades. I hadn’t spoken to him privately in a long time. Michael had gradually taken over the business, the meetings, the contracts—everything Robert and David once handled together.
