He took the folder, his liver-spotted hands trembling slightly. He read in silence. The clock on the wall ticked—a heavy, rhythmic sound that seemed to chop the time into digestible pieces.
“Robert,” Mr. Abernathy muttered, closing the folder. He took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “He sat in this very chair five years ago to update his final wishes. He never breathed a word.”
“He was good at that,” I said dryly.
“This complicates things,” Abernathy said. “The estate is settled. Reopening it… there are tax implications. There are challenges. If we reclassify the distribution of the land assets—”
“I don’t want the land,” Alyssa spoke up. It was the first time she’d spoken. Her voice was soft but clear.
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