“Keep me posted.”
That was all.
He passed on a Tuesday at 5:12 a.m. I was holding his hand when it went still.
Linda arrived that afternoon.
I heard her before I saw her—the crunch of luxury tires on gravel, the confident slam of a car door.
I stepped onto the porch and watched her step out of a glossy black Mercedes, oversized sunglasses hiding half her face. She wore a white blazer, dressed more for brunch than for her father’s home after his death.
She didn’t hug me.
She hadn’t come to grieve. She’d come to evaluate.
