The black file held something that stopped me cold: copies of forms requesting information about my father’s medical capacity, blank power-of-attorney templates, notes in Grant’s handwriting, and an email chain between Grant and someone from his office with the subject line Timing after James.
I stared at it until the letters blurred.
Timing after James.
Not after the funeral. Not after mourning. After James.
The note Dad left on top of that file said only: Blackwood to explain.
A key turned in the front door.
I didn’t move at first. I heard Grant come in—fast steps, then slower when he realized the house was quiet. He called my name once, twice. There was a strange hoarseness in his voice, as if his throat had gone raw trying to stitch together a defense during the drive home.
I closed the black file and stood.
He appeared in the doorway a second later, tie half undone, hair messed from dragging his hands through it. He looked wrecked. Good.
“Natalie,” he said, exhaling like he’d just found a missing child. “Thank God.”
I stared at him from behind my father’s desk. “That’s an odd choice of words.”
“Please don’t do this.”