“A letter from my attorney. Regarding the trust that governs this property.”
“What trust?” Megan’s voice had changed register slightly.
“The one that determines who receives this house when I die.”
Megan laughed, but it came out smaller than she intended. “You think waving some paperwork at me is going to—”
“It is no longer going to Robert,” Eleanor said.
The sentence stopped Megan as completely as a hand pressed flat against a chest.
“What?”
“I changed it two weeks ago,” Eleanor said, folding the sheet back into the folder with the deliberateness of a person who does not rush through things that matter. “After your mother asked me, for the third time in eighteen months, whether I had given any thought to doing something practical with the property. After your sister emailed me vacation rental management listings without being asked. And after you told Robert, in the conversation you had in the kitchen at his cousin’s birthday dinner, that you had already looked into what permits you would need to put a deck on the south side.”
Megan’s expression went through several adjustments in a short period.