lifted her phone. “Finish that sentence carefully.”
For the first time since Iris came home, Trent hesitated.
The lock came off in seven minutes.
Each small metallic click echoed through the hallway. Iris stood with her cane planted in front of her and watched the white keypad separate from the wood. Underneath it, two ugly screw holes gaped in the blue-painted frame Sam had sanded by hand.
Mr. Calloway opened the door.
Iris did not step inside right away.
The room had been stripped of her.
The sewing table was shoved beneath a pile of folded sweaters. Beige curtains covered the bright window. A folding bed stood where the reading chair had been. Her shelves were half empty, occupied now by pill bottles, perfume, a framed photograph of people Iris did not know, and a glass dish of wrapped candies.
Sam’s radio was gone from the sill.
Lena began to cry silently.
Iris wished, fiercely, that tears still impressed her.
Marla crossed her arms. “I was told the room was unused.”
“You were told what made it easier for you to accept,” Iris said.
Then she saw the folder on her desk.
It was partly hidden under Marla’s silk scarf. Not green. Black. New. A pen lay across it.
Trent moved at the same moment Iris did.
Harriet was closer.
She placed her palm flat on the black folder. “No.”
Trent’s face hardened. “That is mine.”
“Then you should not have left it on Iris Bell’s desk in Iris Bell’s locked room inside Iris Bell’s house.”
Iris came forward. Her knee throbbed. Sweat gathered under the hospital bracelet. She opened the folder.
The first page was an appointment confirmation for property photographs.
The second was a market estimate.
The third was a brochure for a senior residence outside town, with her name written in the corner in Trent’s square handwriting.
Lena made a strangled sound. “What is that?”
Trent said, “It was an option.”
“No,” Lena said. “We talked about help at home.”
“We talked about reality.”
Iris turned another page.
There was a form with her name typed at the top. At the bottom was a signature meant to be hers.
It was not.
Iris had signed her name the same way for fifty years, a narrow I and a looped B. After a small stroke three years ago, the loop had become shaky, bent toward the line. Whoever signed this had made it smooth.
Too smooth.
Harriet took one look and inhaled through her nose. “That is a forgery.”
Marla backed toward the wall. Her face had lost its polish.
Trent pointed at Iris. “She cannot maintain this property. She forgets bills. She falls. She almost died last week.”
“I had an infection,” Iris said. “Not a funeral.”
“You are being selfish.”
The word landed with such absurd force that Iris almost laughed.
“Selfish,” she said, “for wanting my own room in my own house.”
Lena turned to Trent, tears running freely now. “You said the appraisal was just in case.”
“It was.”
“You said Mom might choose assisted living later.”
“She should.”
“You signed her name?”
Trent’s mouth opened. Closed.
Marla spoke then, very quietly. “You said she had agreed once she recovered.”
The room went still.
Trent turned on her. “Do not.”
But Marla was looking
