I took a seat at the far end of the mahogany table, keeping my distance. No greetings. No courtesy. No curiosity. I was still the outsider — the piece that never quite fit.
Moments later, the door opened again. Mr. Whitman entered, a leather folder tucked under his arm, glasses reflecting the fluorescent lights. He cleared his throat.
“Thank you all for coming. We are here today to read the last will and testament of Helen.”
The room went still. Even Emily lowered her phone briefly.
