“The remainder of the estate, including investment accounts, intellectual property, and the residence on Beacon Terrace in Boston, is placed in trust for the benefit of Ms. Morgan James,” he said while my father’s eyes widened with greedy calculation and my mother whispered the number fourteen million dollars as if she had just heard a religious revelation.
My father cleared his throat and leaned forward with a smile that had once convinced teachers and bank managers to agree with him.
“We can handle the money for her,” he said smoothly, “since we are still her parents and obviously responsible for managing something this complicated.”
Before the attorney could respond, the door opened and another man stepped inside carrying a thin black folder, and although I did not turn around I recognized the measured footsteps of Andrew Caldwell, the attorney who had represented my guardian for more than a decade.
Andrew nodded once toward me and then looked calmly at my parents before speaking with the kind of quiet authority that did not need volume to command attention.
“I am afraid the matter is already settled legally,” he said while opening the folder and sliding a document across the table.