The Envelope
Whitney Kern smoothed her blazer twice before she reached for the door handle. Twice was her number. Three times looked nervous.
Inside, the law office smelled of new carpet and old coffee. Her mother, Rosalind, already sat in the front row of chairs, spine straight, hands folded over a black clutch like she was praying.
"You're late," Rosalind said without turning.
"Traffic." Whitney sat beside her.
Garrett came in last, tie crooked, smelling faintly of the job site he'd clearly come straight from. "Sorry. Had a pour I couldn't leave."
"Dad's been dead nine days," Rosalind said. "The concrete could've waited."
Garrett didn't answer. He never did, not to her.
At exactly ten o'clock, the lawyer, Foster Lane, stepped out of his office. He looked older than Whitney remembered from the funeral — grayer, like the week had cost him something too. He'd been her father's lawyer for twenty years. Golf on Sundays. Christmas cards.
"Rosalind. Whitney. Garrett." He said each name like he was counting them. "Thank you for coming. Please, come in."
The room he led them to was smaller than Whitney expected, just one long table and a stack of folders squared at the edge like they'd been arranged twice.
Rosalind sat first, at the head, the way she always had at family dinners.
"Before we start," Lane said, not sitting, "I want to explain how today will go."
"You've done this before," Rosalind said. "Just read it."
Lane's eyes moved to the door instead of her. A young woman in a cardigan leaned in.
"Mr. Lane? They're here. Should I bring them in now, or—"
"They?" Rosalind's head turned.
Lane held up a hand toward the assistant, a small stop, but it was a beat too slow.
"Who's here?" Whitney asked.
The assistant glanced at Lane, uncertain whether she'd already said too much.
"There's a woman and a teenage boy in the hallway," she said. "They said they have an appointment. They said they're on the list too."