By noon, she was sitting in the office of a new lawyer, Ms. Hale, a sharp woman with short gray hair and a no-nonsense attitude. Gwen spilled everything: the migraine, the papers, the kindness, the betrayal. She showed Ms. Hale the cracked phone, the empty guest room, the note on the fridge. “Can’t we fight this?” she begged. “She tricked me. I was sick.”
Ms. Hale sighed, pushing her glasses up her nose. “I’m sorry, Gwen. But you signed those documents voluntarily. There’s no proof of coercion—no witnesses, no 录音，nothing. Elizabeth even added a note that you ‘reviewed and approved’ each form. The paperwork is ironclad. A court fight would cost you tens of thousands, and you’d probably lose. It’s not worth it.”
That night, Gwen wandered the house. She touched Albert’s sweater, still draped over the study chair. She opened the fridge, where Elizabeth’s note still hung. She sat on the couch, where they’d watched Casablanca, and cried. She felt numb, and foolish, and alone. But somewhere, deep down, a tiny voice whispered: Albert wouldn’t have let this happen. He must have planned something. She pushed it away. Wishful thinking. Albert was gone. He couldn’t save her now.
The morning of the funeral, Gwen dressed slowly. She put on the navy suit Albert had bought her for their 25th anniversary, the one she’d thought she’d never wear again. She pinned her hair back with the pearl clip he’d given her, and 抹了 a little lipstick—just enough to look put-together. She wouldn’t let Elizabeth see her break. She wouldn’t give her the satisfaction.
At the church, the pews were full. Mr. Henderson was there, holding a peach pie. Albert’s college friends were there, telling stories about late nights and bad beer. Gwen stood at the door, greeting people with a tight smile, and when Elizabeth walked in—wearing a black dress, her hair styled perfectly—Gwen didn’t flinch. She nodded, once, and turned away.
The service was beautiful. Father Michael read Albert’s favorite verse. The organist played “Amazing Grace” fast, just like he’d liked. Gwen read the eulogy, her voice steady, and when she talked about the way Albert hummed in the shower, the way he fixed things with duct tape and a prayer, a few people laughed through their tears. Elizabeth sat in the front row, her head down, and Gwen didn’t look at her.
When the service ended, people lingered, hugging Gwen, offering condolences. She was talking to Marge Bennett about the pie when two men in dark suits approached. They were polished, with name tags that said “First National Bank.” “Excuse me,” one of them said. “We’re looking for the owner of Albert Hale’s estate. We have some documents to discuss.”