The Woman at the Door
She was younger-looking than Naomi expected, sharp around the eyes in a way that made her handsome instead of pretty, dressed a little too well for a Tuesday afternoon. She didn't wait for an invitation.
"You must be the wife," Lorraine said, stepping halfway through the door before Naomi had decided whether to let her in. "I'm Sable's mother."
"I know who you are," Naomi said. "I found your name on twenty-four years of bank statements."
Something flickered across Lorraine's face — not shame, Naomi noted, more like recalculation. "Then you understand I have a claim here too."
"To what, exactly?"
"To the house. To Sable's inheritance, as her mother. I raised that girl. I deserve—"
"You deserve nothing," a voice said from the driveway, and Naomi turned to see Sable standing there, keys still in hand, face gone pale and furious at once. She must have followed her mother, or been warned. "I told you not to come here."
"I'm your mother," Lorraine said. "I have every right—"
"You have no rights to anything of mine," Sable said, and her voice shook in a way that told Naomi this wasn't the first time this exact fight had happened, just the first time it had happened with witnesses. "Not the house, not me, not anything he left me."
Lorraine's expression tightened into something colder. "He left it to you because he felt guilty," she said. "Guilty for what happened when you were small. You think that house is love? It's hush money with better landscaping."
Sable flinched like she'd been struck, and Naomi — without entirely deciding to — stepped between them.
"I think you should leave," Naomi said.
"This isn't your house to protect anymore," Lorraine said, smiling now, thin and dangerous. "And it won't be hers for long either. I already spoke to a lawyer. There are ways to contest a will when the deceased wasn't exactly in his right mind at the end. We'll see what a judge thinks about a man secretly rewriting his estate for a woman his own family never knew existed."