“We should take care of this before things become complicated,” she said quietly.
Her voice held none of the softness most mothers carry at their child’s funeral.
I looked down at the envelope, confused.
“What is it?”
“Transfer documents,” she replied.
The word sat in the air for a moment before my brain fully caught up with what she meant.
“The house,” Helena continued calmly, as if we were discussing a grocery list instead of property during her son’s funeral, “and the Mercedes Daniel drove — those assets belong with the Mercer family now. You’ll need to sign them over.”
For a second I actually thought she was joking.
Then I saw the seriousness in her eyes.
My pulse began to pound.
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