“The late Margaret Caldwell executed her final will and testament on March third,” he says. “She also left a personal statement to be read aloud before the distributions are detailed.”
At the mention of distributions, Ethan leans back slightly.
I know that posture.
It is the same one he used in restaurants before a waiter brought the good bourbon list. The same one he used when he expected favorable numbers at the end of a quarter. Relaxed. Certain. Possessive in advance.
Lauren glances at him the way women glance at men they think have already chosen them permanently.
And somewhere under the shock, under the humiliation, under the hollow ache of Margaret’s recent death, a different emotion flickers awake in me.
Curiosity.
Because if Margaret knew enough to insist Lauren be here, then this room is not unfolding by accident.
Margaret Caldwell had never done anything by accident.