Dad ignored her.
He pointed at me.
“What did you do to her?”
Ryan took a step toward the coffee table.
Brooke caught his sleeve, but he pulled free.
Mr.
Hollis closed his hand over the amendment before either of them could grab it.
“Margaret prepared these documents through my office,” he said.
“She gave the instructions herself.
She reviewed them herself.
She signed them herself.”
Dad scoffed.
“She was old.”
Mr.
Hollis’s expression hardened.
“She was also very clear.”
That landed badly.
Several of Dad’s business friends suddenly became fascinated by the floor.
The same men who had smiled when he announced that Ryan deserved the family legacy were now studying their shoes.
Mr.
Hollis put on his glasses and began reading.
The amendment identified the three houses individually.
Mission Beach.
Clairemont.
Balboa.
Upon Margaret’s death, the trust directed that all three be distributed to me.
Not to Dad.
Not to Ryan.
To me.
For several seconds I heard nothing except the low hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen.
Ryan broke first.
“That’s impossible.”
Mr.
Hollis looked at him.
“It is not.”
“My grandmother told Dad the houses were staying with the family.”
“They are staying with the family.”
Ryan’s face tightened.
“You know what I mean.”
Mr.
Hollis did not answer.
Dad dropped the deed onto the table.
“You manipulated her.”
This time he was speaking directly to me.
I stood slowly.
My knees felt strangely light after sitting so rigidly for so long, but my voice was steady.
“No.”
“You were always calling her.”
“She was my grandmother.”
“You filled her head with things.”
“What things?”
Dad opened his mouth and stopped.
That was the problem with accusations built entirely from entitlement.
Eventually somebody asks you to name the crime.
He tried another direction.
“You weren’t even here half the time.”
