“Show me the will.”
He slid a document across the table. Not our family lawyer’s letterhead, but something printed on Brandon’s corporate stationery. Nicholas’s signature looked wrong somehow—too perfect, too steady for a man whose hands had trembled with pain for months.
“You had him sign this while he was on morphine.”
The rage that rose in me then was something primal, something I hadn’t felt since I watched a fox try to steal into our chicken coop when the children were small. I’d chased it off with a broom and the kind of fury that comes from protecting what’s yours.
“He was lucid,” Brandon insisted. “He wanted us to have a fresh start with the business. There’s a developer interested in the land.”
“Developer for a luxury housing community,” Melissa explained, her eyes bright with the prospect of money. “They’ll pay seven million. Mom, we can all start fresh.”
