Elena didn’t rush inside.
She stood in the doorway in her navy suit, rain still clinging to her sleeves, with the deputy beside her and our building manager behind them holding a clipboard. For the first time since I got home, Marjorie looked uncertain.
‘Who are these people?’ she snapped.
Elena looked past me at the open closets, the packed suitcases, Bradley’s shirts folded into someone else’s luggage, and the handwritten list on my table.
Then she lifted the black folder in her hand.
‘I’m Elena Cruz,’ she said. ‘Bradley Hale’s attorney. And before anyone moves another item, you should know this residence is no longer part of his probate estate.’
Declan actually laughed. ‘Nice try. We checked. There’s no will.’
Elena’s expression didn’t change.
‘That’s because Bradley was smarter than all of you.’
You could feel the air leave the room.
Marjorie stepped forward, chin high, trying to turn outrage into authority. ‘I am his mother.’
‘And yet,’ Elena said, opening the folder, ‘you are not on the trust, not on the title, not on the access revocation, and definitely not on the contingency file he signed six days before his death.’
Fiona stopped touching the desk.
Declan stopped smiling.
The deputy glanced toward the suitcases. ‘Ma’am, I’d advise everyone here to stop packing.’
