“Mrs. Canton, Mr. Hargrove is expecting you.” She hurried from behind her desk. “Can I get you anything? Water? Coffee?”
“I’m fine, Helen. Thank you.”
Vincent met me at his office door, his tall frame a bit stooped with age but his eyes sharp as ever. He’d been a year behind Nicholas in school, had handled our business incorporation, our wills—everything legal in our lives.
“Naomi.” He guided me to a leather chair, then sat not behind his desk, but in the chair beside me. “Tell me what’s happening.”
So I did. The conversation after the funeral. The suspicious will. The drive and abandonment. With each detail, Vincent’s expression darkened.
“The will they showed you,” he said when I finished, “was not the will Nicholas and I prepared last year. Their document is a forgery. I suspected as much.”
I opened my purse and removed the fireproof box. From it, I withdrew the deed to the original twenty acres.
