Brenda poured two glasses of wine but left hers untouched, watching me instead. I slid a finger under the damp flap and unfolded my father’s letter, breathing in the faint scent of tobacco that still clung to the paper. His words were calm, deliberate, and devastating. He knew about Simon. He knew about Misty. Worst of all, he knew about Jesse’s betrayal months before I ever suspected it.
But my father had never been a fool. The will they were so eager to hear tomorrow, he explained, was only the version Jesse knew about. The real one, the binding one, was already in Brenda’s possession, triggered only if anyone tried to challenge his mental state. In that case, everything—house, land, accounts—would pass solely to me, with one condition: I was to keep the roses exactly where they were, as proof that some roots can’t be bought or replaced.
