I picked up Ben’s heavy wool winter coat from the entryway closet and folded it into the box. A small brass key fell out of the pocket, clinking against the hardwood floor.
“What is that?” Martha asked, leaning forward.
“It is the key to his old office at the construction yard,” I said, picking it up.
“Do you think he has more files there?” Martha asked.
“We will find out tomorrow,” I said, placing the key in my apron pocket.
I pressed the heavy brown tape down across the top of the box, sealing his belongings inside.
Gary, my estate attorney, laid three copies of the revocation order onto his mahogany desk. He took off his thick glasses and began polishing them with the wide end of his blue silk tie, his eyes squinting in the morning light of his office. On the corner of his desk sat a white paper cup of diner coffee costing two dollars and fifty cents, the steam rising slowly in the quiet room.
“If you sign this, Clara,” he said, pausing between his words for emphasis, “every joint account is frozen instantly.”
I reached for the black ballpoint pen sitting on his yellow legal pad, which was covered in scribbled dates and figures. My hand was steady, though the silver wedding band on my left finger felt looser than it had the week before.
“We are done playing his game, Gary,” I said, looking him in the eye. “Prepare the final documents.”
He set his glasses back on his nose, adjusting them slowly, then pointed to the bottom line of the first page.
“This will stop the bank transfer,” Gary said, tapping his finger on the paper. “But we must also address the joint tax filing Ben asked you to sign last night.”
I pulled the unsigned tax document from my purse and laid it next to the revocation order on his desk.
“He told me it was a simple matter of clearing his old business accounts,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
Gary scanned the lines, his thumb tracing the columns of numbers, his brow furrowing as he reached the third page.
“It does more than clear them,” Gary said. “It legally binds your eighty-five-thousand-dollar inheritance to his outstanding construction liabilities.”
I signed my name on the three copies of the revocation order, pressing the pen hard into the paper until the blue ink took hold.
“Will the bank accept this immediately?” I asked.
Gary checked his wall clock, which read ten minutes past nine.
“They will,” Gary said, “but you must deliver it to the branch manager yourself before the noon clearing cycle.”
I slipped the signed copies into my leather handbag and stood up, the chair scraping against the thin carpet.
“I am going there now,” I said.
“And after the bank,” Gary said, “we need the original hospital records for the fraud unit.”
I nodded once, my mind already moving to the next stop on the map.
“Evelyn is meeting me at two o’clock,” I said.
“Be careful, Clara,” Gary said. “Ben still thinks the money is moving to his offshore account in Costa Rica tomorrow.”
I closed my bag with a sharp click, the sound echoing in the small office.
