The following morning, I drove to the lawyer’s office with a mix of determination and dread. The building was a nondescript structure in the heart of downtown, its exterior as unassuming as the secrets it held within.
Inside, the lobby was cool and sterile, the kind of place where time seemed to slow down. The receptionist greeted me with a rehearsed smile and gestured toward a row of seats. “Mr. Ellis will be with you shortly,” she said.
As I waited, I couldn’t help but notice the framed certificates lining the walls, each one a testament to the firm’s expertise and credibility. Yet, my trust in them—and in the assurances I’d received over the years—was wavering.
Finally, I was ushered into a conference room, where Mr. Ellis sat waiting. The table between us was bare, save for a single manila folder.
“I’ve reviewed the documents,” he began, sliding the folder toward me. “It appears there were amendments made to the will, signed and dated six months before your father’s passing.”
I opened the folder with hesitant hands, my eyes scanning the pages for familiar signatures, dates, anything that might explain the changes.
“I wasn’t aware of these amendments,” I said, my voice barely a whisper.
“It’s not uncommon,” Mr. Ellis replied, his gaze steady. “Sometimes, people have reasons for keeping such matters private.”
There was something in his tone, a quiet understanding, that made me wonder just how much he knew—or suspected.
Read more on the next page ⬇️⬇️⬇️
