It wasn’t suspicion. It wasn’t accusation. It was something rarer: recognition without personal familiarity. Consideration. As if she had just been handed one missing piece of a puzzle and was checking whether it fit.
My stomach tightened. My pulse thudded in my throat. Beside me, my daughter’s fingers tightened on my sleeve, sensing tension without needing to understand it.
The judge lowered her eyes to the document again.
“This filing,” she said evenly, “was submitted early this morning by the estate attorney of the late Eleanor Whitaker.”
My husband frowned as if he had heard a foreign name. He leaned toward his attorney and whispered something that made the attorney’s mouth twitch with dismissive amusement.
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