I came home from the funeral to tell my parents and sister that my husband had left me $8.5m and 6 Manhattan lofts. When I walked into the house, I overheard my parents talking. What they were saying… made my blood run cold.

Each question is designed to build a case. I recognize the pattern because I spent 3 days reading about involuntary guardianship proceedings on my phone at 2 in the morning.

Voss isn’t checking on me. He’s constructing a diagnosis.

“Sometimes grief can make us feel like we’re not capable of handling our own affairs,” he says gently. “That’s perfectly normal.”

Patricia leans forward. “She’s been like this since Nathan died. Shut down. Not herself.”

I answer every question clearly, calmly, and without emotion. I give Voss nothing.

After 20 minutes, I excuse myself to get water. I walk to the back porch, close the screen door, and call James. This time, he answers.

“Don’t leave that house yet,” he says. “I need to tell you something. Nathan set up. Can you come to my office tomorrow morning?”

My pulse picks up for the first time in days. And it’s not from fear.

I tell Patricia I’m going for a drive. Nathan used to take me driving when I was sad, I say, and she buys it without blinking. She even pats my shoulder on the way out.

James Whitfield’s office is in Glendale, one town over. Small building, second floor, no receptionist. He’s waiting at the door.