angled toward the window.
“What insurance letters?” she asked.
I swallowed.
“From Dad’s policy. Mom said there wasn’t much left after expenses. She said it was better if she managed it because I had enough to worry about.”
Grandma’s jaw tightened.
“Your father named you primary beneficiary.”
The words came softly, but they changed the shape of the car.
“What?”
“He changed it when you told him you were pregnant. He called me afterward. He said whatever happened, he wanted you and the baby protected.”
My heart began beating so hard it hurt.
“Mom said the policy barely covered the funeral.”
Grandma closed her eyes for one second.
When she opened them, there was no softness left.
“Driver,” she said, “take us to Whitcomb and Hale.”
I looked up. “Your attorney’s office?”
“Yes.”
“Grandma, maybe we should talk to Mom first.”
She turned toward me then, and for the first time I saw grief beneath her anger.
“Clara, love, people who are merely confused welcome questions. People who are hiding something punish you for asking.”
I looked down at Leo.
His fingers had curled around the edge of my coat. He was asleep again, mouth parted, lashes damp from the rain.
“I don’t want to destroy the family,” I whispered.
Grandma reached over and covered my hand with hers.
“The person who steals from a daughter holding a sick baby has already done that. You are only turning on the lights.”
Whitcomb and Hale occupied the third floor of a brick building with brass lamps beside the entrance. By the time we arrived, the rain had slowed to a mist, and downtown looked polished and cold. Mr. Julian Hale met us in the lobby as if he had been expecting Grandma.
He probably had. Eleanor Whitaker did not arrive anywhere unprepared.
Mr. Hale was tall, narrow, and gray-bearded, with the careful expression of a man who preferred facts to drama. His eyes softened when he saw Leo.
“Clara,” he said, “I am sorry we are meeting under these circumstances.”
I wanted to ask what circumstances he meant, but he led us into a conference room before I could speak.
There was a leather folder on the table.
Grandma placed her purse beside it and sat slowly. Her hands were steady, but I noticed how white her knuckles looked around her cane.
Mr. Hale untied the folder and removed three documents.
“Before we discuss anything,” he said, “I need you to answer clearly. Did you authorize your mother, Marlene Whitaker, to manage your finances?”
“No.”
“Did you authorize your cousin, Tessa Vale, to register the minivan in her name?”
“No.”
“Did you sign any document claiming you were unable to handle your own medical, financial, or parental decisions?”
My skin went cold.
“No.”
He turned the first document toward me.
At the bottom was my name.
Clara Whitaker.
The signature was close. Almost mine. Whoever had written it knew the general shape of my hand, the loop in the W, the long tail on the r. But the C was wrong. I always curled it inward. This one opened too wide, like a hook.
My vision blurred at the edges.
“I didn’t sign this.”
Grandma’s voice came from beside me. “Look at the date.”
I did.
The form had been dated
