“When Is the Old Woman Going to Die?”
One quiet Sunday, everything changed. I went downstairs early to make coffee and heard voices from their room. The hallway carried the sound perfectly.
Melanie’s voice asked, in a casual tone, “So when is the old woman going to die?”
My blood went cold.
Jeffrey laughed nervously and told her not to talk like that. She ignored him. She said I was sixty-eight, I could live another twenty or thirty years, and they couldn’t wait that long. They needed “a way to speed things up,” or at least make sure all my assets went straight to them without legal trouble.
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