I thought about her in my dress, sitting in my seat, holding his hand while my father’s casket faced the altar. Public grief. Public transition. He really had been trying to debut her.
My skin went cold.
“What about the dress?” I asked.
Her face crumpled. “He told me you’d donated it. He took me to your house when you were at the hospital. He said he had permission.”
That lined up perfectly with the housekeeper’s voicemail.
“He also asked me to do something else,” she said.
I held very still.
She reached into her bag and pulled out a USB drive. “A few weeks ago he had me print some documents at the office because he didn’t want them going through his home printer. Medical forms. Financial summaries. He said it was for estate planning. I didn’t think…” She swallowed. “I didn’t think.”
I stared at the drive.
“What’s on that?”
“Scans. And a recording.” Her voice shook. “He left me a voicemail by accident one night. I think he meant to call someone else. He was talking about your father.”
My heartbeat thudded in my ears.
“Play it.”
She slid her phone across the table. The screen was already cued up.
Grant’s voice filled the tiny space between us, tinny through the speaker but unmistakable.