The Reading of the Will
The Other Wife

Strangers in the Hall

Rosalind stood so fast her clutch hit the floor.

"On what list?"

Lane's jaw worked. "Rosalind, please sit back down—"

"Who is in my husband's hallway?"

The door opened before he could answer. A woman stepped in first — early forties, blonde bob, cream cardigan, the kind of composed that Whitney recognized because she'd worn it herself, walking into rooms braced for a fight. Behind her, a teenage boy hovered, maybe sixteen, dark curls, a backpack still on both shoulders like he might need to run.

Nobody spoke for three full seconds.

"Who are you?" Garrett finally said.

"My name is Juniper Thorne." Her voice was steady, rehearsed. "This is my son, Asa."

"Your son," Rosalind repeated, like the words were in a language she used to know.

Lane stepped between the two halves of the room, hands raised, a referee too late to the fight. "I asked Ms. Thorne and Asa to wait outside so I could speak with the three of you first. That's my mistake. I take responsibility for the confusion."

"Confusion about what?" Whitney's voice came out sharper than she meant it. "Foster. What is this?"

Lane exhaled through his nose, the sound of a man setting down something heavy.

"Holt named all five of you in the will," he said. "Ms. Thorne, and Asa, as well as the three of you."

"Why would he name his lawyer's clients—" Rosalind started.

"They're not clients." Lane looked at her directly now, and something in his face made Whitney's stomach drop before he even said it. "Rosalind. I need you to hear this carefully. Eleven years ago, Holt filed for divorce in Nevada. It was finalized eight months later. Two years after that, he married Ms. Thorne."

The room went white at the edges, the way rooms did in Whitney's memory of bad news.

"That's not possible," Rosalind said. "We never divorced. We were married thirty-six years. I have the certificate—"

"You have a certificate for a marriage," Lane said gently, "that ended in the eyes of the law eleven years ago. Legally, Rosalind — I'm so sorry — you haven't been his wife since."

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