He was older than I remembered—silver-haired, distinguished, with the kind of calm that comes from decades of delivering life-changing news to people who weren’t ready to hear it.
“Thank you all for coming,” he said, settling into his chair. “Before we begin the formal reading, I need to verify a few things.”
He opened a manila folder and looked at Victoria.
“Mrs. Hartley, have you ever seen the complete will your parents filed with my office?”
Victoria straightened.
“I’ve seen the will. Yes. It was in my mother’s nightstand.”
“The document in the nightstand,” Harold repeated, nodding slowly. “Can you describe it?”
“Four pages. Standard legal language. Everything left to me as the eldest daughter.”
Harold removed his glasses and cleaned them with a cloth. The gesture was unhurried, almost theatrical.
“Mrs. Hartley,” he said quietly, “have you ever seen the complete will, or just the summary your mother kept as a reference copy?”
Victoria’s hand tightened on her bag.
For the first time, her smile disappeared.
“What are you talking about?”
“A summary. That was the will.”
Harold opened his briefcase and withdrew a thick document bound in blue legal backing.
He placed it on the table between us.
“This is your parents’ last will and testament. Thirty-two pages. Executed six months ago in this office, witnessed by two of my associates, notarized and filed with the probate court.”
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