Mrs. Higgins had handled Aunt Betty’s estate and the legal war that followed when my parents contested the will. She was sixty if she was a day, silver-blonde, razor straight posture, ivory blouse under a dark green suit, and the sort of expression that made entitled men overexplain themselves before she had said a word. Her office smelled faintly of lemon oil and paper. A bowl of peppermints sat untouched on the corner of her desk.
She listened without interruption while I laid out the screenshots, the call log, the photos, the banking transactions. When I finished, she folded her hands and studied me for a long moment.
“How much of the house do they believe they already control?” she asked.
“Enough to make plans for where I’d live in the basement.”
One corner of her mouth moved. Not amusement. Recognition.
“People like this tell on themselves through assumptions,” she said. “They only plan that boldly when they believe the paperwork is already in motion.”
She opened a slim file from her desk drawer.
“I made one inquiry before you arrived,” she said. “Merely to satisfy my own suspicion.”
She slid the top document toward me.