There was a quiet shift on the far side of the table: Steven’s shoulders relaxing; Catherine’s mouth curving in the faintest smile; Michael’s phone finally stilling.
Peggy heard the blood in her ears. It sounded like an ocean. Her fingers clenched, then released.
Surely now, she thought. Now he will say my name. Now it will turn.
Marcus flipped a page.
Peggy watched his face as if she could force it to soften, as if her attention could change what he was about to say. Marcus had been to her house. He’d eaten her food. He’d thanked her for hosting at gatherings where Richard shined and Peggy dimmed herself into the background like a lamp turned low.
He drew in a slow breath. When he looked up, there was something in his eyes she’d never seen before: pity he couldn’t hide, even behind the lawyer mask.
“Peggy,” he said, and the sound of her name in that room felt like a funeral bell. “I’m… very sorry.”
The words were not part of the will. They were his.
Peggy opened her mouth, but her voice caught on something sharp in her throat.
Marcus looked back down at the paper, as if reading was easier than meeting her eyes.
“I am required to read this verbatim,” he said softly.
And then he did.