“Was he?”
Before he could respond, the funeral director, Mr. Bell, stepped away from the back wall and locked the chapel doors. The click rang through the room.
My brothers turned.
Behind them stood Dad’s private attorney, Miriam Cole, holding a leather file. Beside her were two detectives in dark suits and a nurse named Celeste Ward, whose face had turned gray beneath the chapel lights. Familyhistory research
Owen’s smug expression vanished. Grant’s hand froze at his cuff link.
“Why are the doors locked?” he demanded.
Detective Ramos showed his badge. “Because nobody leaves until we finish a conversation.”
Celeste started crying.
Three days earlier, Grant had told everyone Dad had died peacefully in his sleep after refusing treatment. He had demanded a closed casket until I threatened an injunction. He had also produced a new will, signed forty-eight hours before Dad died, leaving everything to him and Owen. Familyhistory research
I had stayed silent.
