Gwen stood there, watching, and for the first time in weeks, she felt light. Free. Albert had known. Of course he’d known. He’d loved her, and he’d known Elizabeth—greedy, impulsive, always looking for a quick win. He’d set it up perfectly. The “inheritance” Elizabeth had stolen was a noose: a beautiful house with a crushing mortgage, a car that barely ran, debts that would drown her.
Gwen thought of the note she’d found in Albert’s study the night before, tucked in his copy of Casablanca. She’d missed it earlier, buried under papers. It was short, in his messy handwriting: Honey, if you’re reading this, she took the bait. Don’t worry. I got you. You’re free.
Tears pricked at Gwen’s eyes, but they weren’t tears of grief. They were tears of relief.
Elizabeth looked at her again, her eyes filled with rage and betrayal, but Gwen just smiled—a small, quiet smile—and turned away. She walked over to Mr. Henderson, who was holding the pie, and said, “Want to come over? I could use some company. And I think Albert would want us to eat that pie together.”
As she left the church, the sun was shining, and the air felt fresh. Elizabeth was still arguing with the bankers, but Gwen didn’t look back. She was free.
Three days later, a letter arrived in the mail. From First National Bank. It confirmed what the bankers had said: the estate’s debts were now Elizabeth’s responsibility. Gwen read it, folded it neatly, and tucked it in Albert’s photo album, next to the picture of him with the fish.
She sat down on the couch, turned on Casablanca, and poured herself a cup of tea. The house was quiet, but it didn’t feel empty. It felt like home. And for the first time in a long time, Gwen Hale was happy.