But Stephanie looked pleased.
Not happy, exactly. She was too careful for happiness. Happy people get careless. Stephanie was pleased in a settled way, like a woman receiving confirmation that the world had organized itself correctly. Her dark hair was swept into a low twist. Her makeup was perfect, not heavy, just enough to say she respected the seriousness of the day without allowing grief to damage her presentation. Her nails were pale pink. Her wedding ring flashed whenever she moved her hand. Every inch of her announced control.
Mr. Morrison looked up from the will.
He was a silver-haired man with wire-rimmed glasses and the calm, weathered face of someone who had spent forty years watching respectable families become animals in rooms full of polished wood. He had known my son for years. He had helped David close on the house, update business contracts, prepare insurance documents, and draft the estate plan we were now sitting around like mourners at a table where the food had spoiled. He had not reacted when Stephanie nodded at the house. He had not reacted when Marcus underlined the life insurance. But when Stephanie said I should enjoy being homeless, something in his eyes sharpened.
“Mrs. Fairfield,” he said.
