A second car pulled into the driveway then—sleek, dark, unmarked. A man in a suit stepped out, briefcase in hand. Victoria’s lawyer, judging by the way she whirled toward him like he was reinforcements arriving on a battlefield.
They spoke in hushed tones not far from the porch. I watched his face carefully as she waved her hands, gesturing at me, at the officers, at the house. He opened the folder Officer Martinez handed him, scanned the trust documents, frowned, flipped pages.
His shoulders sank.
He looked at Victoria and started speaking, his expression measured, controlled. She went pale. Then flushed red. Then pale again.
I didn’t need to hear the words to know what he was saying.
The trust was ironclad.
Any paperwork she’d had my father sign was meaningless in the face of it.
Not only did she not own the house, but her attempts to claim ownership might have crossed the line into something ugly—fraud, coercion, manipulation of a widower still staggered by grief.
I turned away from them and looked at the house.
Mom’s house.
“My property manager should be here soon,” I said absently, more to myself than anyone else. “The locks need to be changed back. Immediately.”