He pushed papers across the table at me, documents relating to Grandpa’s property, documents with signatures I did not recognize as mine, documents that appeared to have been prepared in advance for a contingency that they had apparently thought through more carefully than I had.
He told me to get out of the house.
I took my bag, my phone, my laptop, and my car keys. I left because I understood, standing in that kitchen, that I was in the presence of something I was not equipped to fight with words. The words had already been decided against me. What I needed was something else.
I drove to the office of Arthur Hargrove.
Mr. Hargrove had been my grandfather’s attorney for thirty-one years. He was in his late sixties, unhurried in the way of someone who had seen most things and had stopped being surprised by the more predictable varieties of human behavior. He had handled the estate when Grandpa Walter died, had walked me through the inheritance, had explained the property transfer in terms I could follow.
