Chapter 6: The Sister
Three days passed.
Gerald came each morning with coffee and updates.
The probate court had acknowledged the revised will.
Vivienne's attorneys had filed an objection on the grounds of diminished capacity — their argument being that Thaddeus had been too ill to make sound legal decisions in the final fourteen months of his life.
"It's a standard tactic," Gerald said on the third morning, sitting on the floor of the cabin across from me.
"They'll argue the illness affected his judgment.
They'll bring in a medical expert."
"Can they win?"
"They can delay.
Winning is harder." He set down his coffee.
"Thaddeus anticipated this.
He had a full psychological evaluation done eleven months ago — independent physician, no connection to either of you.
The results are part of the filing.
He was assessed as fully competent." Gerald paused.
"He thought of everything, Mrs.
Honora."
"He thought of everything except telling me any of it."
Gerald was quiet for a moment.
"He was afraid you'd try to fix it yourself.
He said — and I'm quoting — 'If Mama knows, she'll confront Vivienne directly, and Vivienne will find a way to use it against her.' He wanted the evidence locked down before you knew anything."
I looked at Thaddeus's photograph on the altar.
"He knew me well."
"He did."
My phone buzzed.
An unknown number.
I almost ignored it.
"Hello?"
"Mrs.
Honora." A woman's voice.
Young, slightly breathless.
"My name is Petra.
I'm Vivienne's younger sister."
I said nothing.
"I know you have no reason to trust me," Petra said quickly.
"But I need to talk to you.
Not on her behalf.
The opposite." A pause.
"She called me four days ago.
After the account was frozen.
She asked me to testify that Thaddeus had been confused and forgetful in the last year.
She wanted me to say I'd witnessed him making poor decisions."
"And?"
"And I told her no." Petra's voice steadied.
"Mrs.
Honora, I've watched what she did to your son for years.
I watched what she did to you.
I'm not going to lie in a courtroom to help her keep money she stole from a dying man."
Gerald was watching me.
I put the call on speaker.
"What are you willing to do?" I asked.
"Whatever you need.
I have messages — texts between us going back two years.
She told me about the account.
She told me she was 'securing her future' because Thaddeus was going to d!e and leave her with nothing if she didn't act first." Petra stopped.
"She knew exactly what she was doing.
She planned it."
"Will you give those messages to my attorney?"
"That's why I'm calling."
I looked at Gerald.
He was already writing.
"Petra," I said.
"Why now?
Why not before?"
A long silence.
"Because I was afraid of her.
I've always been afraid of her." Another pause.
"And because last week she told me that once this was settled, she was going to sell the house and move abroad.
She said she was done with all of it — the family, the country, everything." Petra's voice dropped.
"She didn't mention me once.
Twenty years of covering for her, and I wasn't even in her plan."
The line was quiet.
"Send the messages to Gerald Fitch," I said.
"He'll tell you what comes next."
I ended the call.
Gerald set down his pen.
He looked at me for a moment.
"She's been building allies," he said.
"And they're starting to come to you instead."
I looked out the window at the pine trees.
The morning light was coming through at a low angle, pale and cold and very clear.
"How long before the hearing?" I asked.
"Six weeks."
Six weeks.
I looked around the cabin — the swept floors, the altar, the photograph, the metal box now sitting on the kitchen shelf where I could see it every morning.
"Then I have six weeks to make this place livable," I said.
Gerald almost smiled.
"I'll bring a space heater tomorrow."
"Bring two," I said.
"And Gerald — find out who she called after she left here.
The second phone call.
The one she made sitting in her car."
He nodded slowly.
"You think she has someone else."
"I think she always has someone else," I said.
"That's how she operates."
He closed his briefcase and stood.
At the door, he paused.
"Thaddeus said something to me, the last time I saw him.
He said, 'My mother has survived everything life has thrown at her.
She just never had anyone throw anything back on her behalf.'" Gerald looked at me steadily.
"Consider this me throwing."
He left.
I sat with the morning light and the quiet and the photograph of my son, and I let myself feel, for just a moment, something I hadn't felt since the funeral.
Not hope exactly.
Something harder than hope.
Readiness.
Then my phone buzzed again.
Gerald, already — a text, not a call.
*The second call was to a man named Dorian Marsh.
He's a property developer.
He made an offer on the house six months ago.
Thaddeus turned it down.*
I stared at the message.
May you like
Vivienne hadn't been planning to sell the house after the estate settled.
She'd already found her buyer.
