Chapter 4: The Will Nobody Mentioned
Jasmine did not go to her father that evening.
She waited.
She had learned, in the years since Jessica moved in, that timing mattered inside that house.
Asking the wrong question at the wrong moment, with Jessica anywhere nearby, was the same as asking in front of Jessica.
The walls were thin.
Jessica moved quietly.
So Jasmine waited until Saturday morning, when Jessica took her son Tyler to his football practice.
The car backed out of the driveway at nine.
Jasmine gave it five minutes.
Then she went downstairs.
David was in his study, reading the news on his tablet.
Jasmine closed the door behind her.
He looked up.
"I need to ask you about your will," she said.
He set the tablet face-down on the desk.
"Sit down," he said.
She sat.
"I do have a will," he said.
"I had it drawn up a few years ago.
Before Jessica and I got married."
"Did you update it after the wedding?"
A pause.
"Jessica asked me to."
Jasmine's hands were very still in her lap.
"And did you?"
"We went to see a lawyer together," David said.
"About eight months ago.
She wanted to make sure Tyler was included.
She said it wasn't right that her son had no protection if something happened to me."
"What does the new will say?"
David looked at the window.
Then back at her.
"The house goes to Jessica.
My savings are divided — sixty percent to Jessica, twenty percent to Tyler, twenty percent to you."
The number landed quietly.
Twenty percent.
"The old will," Jasmine said.
"What did the old will say?"
"The house went to you," David said.
"Full ownership.
And the savings were split evenly between us."
Jasmine didn't move.
"Dad," she said, "she walked you into a lawyer's office and had you rewrite your will so that your daughter went from inheriting her childhood home to receiving twenty percent of your savings."
"She's my wife, Jasmine.
Tyler is my stepson.
I have a responsibility—"
"Tyler has a father." Jasmine's voice was quiet, but it did not waver.
"Where is Tyler's father in all of this?
Does he contribute anything?"
David's jaw shifted.
"That's complicated."
"She told you it was complicated," Jasmine said.
"Or is that actually true?"
He didn't answer.
Jasmine leaned forward slightly.
"Dad.
Think about the timeline.
She married you.
Three months later, she asked to be added to the deed.
Eight months ago — how long is that after she got on the deed?"
He was quiet.
"How long, Dad?"
"About two years," he said.
"So she got the deed first.
Then she worked on the will." Jasmine's voice stayed level.
"And right now she's handing me lists with rent amounts and telling me to pay or get out.
If I leave, she has you alone in this house.
If you're alone in this house, the will doesn't change.
And if anything ever happens to you—"
"Stop." David's voice was sharp.
Jasmine stopped.
The study was very quiet.
Outside, a neighbor's lawnmower started up, distant and steady.
"I hear what you're saying," David said.
His voice was lower now.
Heavier.
"I'm not — I'm not dismissing it."
"I'm not trying to hurt you," Jasmine said.
"I'm trying to protect you."
David rubbed his face with both hands.
When he looked up, he looked older than he had at the kitchen table two mornings ago.
"She loves me," he said.
But it came out like a question.
"Maybe she does," Jasmine said.
"But love doesn't keep receipts for shampoo."
He looked at her for a long moment.
Then he said something that shifted the ground beneath them both.
"There's something else," he said.
"Something I haven't told you."
Jasmine waited.
"About eight weeks ago," he said slowly, "I found a text message on her phone.
I wasn't snooping.
She'd left it unlocked on the counter." He stopped.
"What did it say?"
His hands pressed flat on the desk.
"It was to a man named Marcus.
I don't know who Marcus is.
The message said—" He stopped again.
Pressed his lips together.
"It said: *It's almost done.
Just be patient.*"
The lawnmower outside continued its steady circuit.
"Did you ask her about it?"
"She said Marcus was a colleague.
That they were finishing a project at work."
"Do you believe that?"
David looked at his hands.
May you like
He didn't answer.
And somehow, that was worse than anything he could have said.
