“He was borrowing against money that wasn’t his yet,” I said.
“He was trying to,” Priya corrected. “The banker got nervous and asked for documentation. He never produced it.”
Blackwood leaned back in his chair. “Your father’s timing may have prevented a much larger mess.”
The room went quiet.
That happened sometimes. In the middle of all the legal strategy and anger, grief would rise like groundwater. My father was still dead. Everything he protected me from, he protected me from while dying. There was no version of this where I got to thank him properly.
I closed the binder.
“What’s Grant doing now?”
Blackwood’s mouth flattened. “Contest posture. He’s implying emotional instability, trying to frame your funeral remarks as evidence of impulsivity, and making noise about challenging the will on capacity grounds.”
I stared at him. “Capacity?”
“Yes.”
I actually laughed. The sound came out sharp enough to make Priya glance up. “My father cross-examined a hospice doctor about dosage levels from his own bed because he thought the man was oversimplifying. He was lucid enough to rearrange three trusts and add a personal insult clause.”