Emily spread whispers to cousins and relatives, painting me as someone who had exploited a grieving widow. Jonathan bombarded Mr. Whitman’s office with threats, promising to challenge the will.
“She doesn’t deserve that house,” he yelled in one voicemail. “We’ll fight this until it’s overturned!”
But Mr. Whitman reassured me. The will was solid. Legally, the property was mine.
Still, at night I stood by the window overlooking the lake. Moonlight shimmered across the dark water. I pressed my palm against the glass and whispered Helen’s words into the quiet.
“A place where you belong.”
