Chapter 3
I called my attorney before I opened the office.
Not because I trusted the law to move fast.
Because I no longer trusted grief.
Grief makes locked doors feel sacred.
Fear makes them feel dangerous.
My attorney, Lydia Cross, arrived forty minutes later with a notary and a quiet investigator named Miles.
Margaret laughed when she saw them.
“You brought an audience?”
“No,” Lydia said. “She brought witnesses.”
Serena sat at the kitchen table with both hands on her stomach.
Poppy stayed beside me, holding her stuffed fox.
I asked her if she wanted to go to Mrs. Alvarez next door.
She shook her head.
“This is my house too.”
I kissed her forehead.
“Yes, it is.”
We went upstairs.
Grant’s office smelled like cedar, dust, and the aftershave he wore the day he died.
My chest tightened.
For a second, I saw him at the desk.
Laughing.
Writing.
Lying.
Lydia touched my arm.
“You can take your time.”
Margaret snapped, “For heaven’s sake, open the door.”
I turned the key.
Inside, everything looked untouched.
Books.
File cabinets.
A framed picture of Grant holding Poppy at the beach.
Margaret walked straight toward the desk.
Miles stopped her.
“Nobody touches anything until we document the room.”
Her lips thinned.
Serena stared at the photo.
“Grant never showed me pictures of her.”
I looked at her.
“Of Poppy?”
She nodded.
“He said you wouldn’t let him.”
The lie stung.
Grant had loved Poppy.
I believed that.
But apparently, he had also built a second life out of lies.
Miles photographed the desk before opening drawers.
The first drawer held bills.
The second held old birthday cards.
The third was locked.
Margaret stepped forward.
“That drawer contains private Bennett documents.”
Lydia looked at me.
“Do you have the key?”
I shook my head.
Poppy tugged my sleeve.
“Mommy.”
“What?”
“Daddy’s fox has one.”
I froze.
May you like
Grant had given Poppy a wooden fox music box before his final trip.
Inside the fox, taped beneath the winding key, was a tiny brass key.
