The Key
Diagnosis. The word sat wrong in Whitney's chest. Her father had been sick for two years before he died — they'd all known that, watched the slow decline, blamed the medication for his forgetfulness, his odd silences. Nobody had said the word manipulation out loud yet, but Whitney could feel it forming in Rosalind's eyes.
"Was he well," Rosalind asked slowly, "when he signed this? In his mind?"
"I have no reason to believe otherwise," Lane said, too quickly for Whitney's comfort.
"Convenient," Garrett muttered, "that the new will got written the week he found out he was dying, and it happens to favor the family he kept secret for sixteen years."
"I didn't write it," Juniper said. "I wasn't in the room."
"But you benefited."
"So did your sister. Are we accusing her too?"
"Enough," Lane said, and for once everyone actually stopped.
It was Whitney who broke the silence, because someone had to, and she'd always been the one who cleaned up after the fights — her father's job, technically, but he was gone. "I want to go through his things. The study. Tonight, if we can."
Nobody objected. Even Juniper seemed relieved to have a task instead of a room full of eyes.
They found it two hours later, in the back of a locked drawer Whitney hadn't known existed behind the false panel of her father's desk — a small brass key, taped to an index card. Her father's handwriting, unmistakable, block capitals he used only for things he meant to remember.
SAFE DEPOSIT — FIRST COASTAL — 04/17
Whitney stared at the date longer than she needed to. She knew that date. Everyone in the family did, though nobody said it out loud in front of the boy standing awkwardly by the door.
It was Asa's birthday.
And it was eleven years before the divorce was even filed.