I picked up Dad’s Mont Blanc pen, hovered over the signature line, then set it back down.
“I need time to think.”
That night, I sat in the dark in my apartment while streetlights stretched shadows across the room and thought through my options.
I could sign.
Walk away.
Let them have it.
That would be easier.
But I kept thinking about the paper in my purse.
I found Dad’s old address book and looked up Gerald Whitmore, the family attorney listed in the funeral program.
It was too late to call, so I left a message.
Whitmore’s office was on the fourth floor of an old brick building downtown—brass nameplates, Persian rugs, the faint scent of old paper.
He was older than I expected—late sixties, wire-rimmed glasses, white hair—but his eyes were sharp.
“Miss Henderson,” he said as he shook my hand. “I was hoping you would call.”
I slid the LLC document across his desk.
“I found this in Dad’s files. I don’t know what it means, but my name is on it.”
Whitmore picked it up, and I saw recognition pass across his face—followed by something like relief.
“The house on Maple Street,” he said carefully, “is not part of your father’s estate.”
I stared at him.
“What?”