Maybe that was what this was, in some twisted adult version. Not need. Not love. Not even greed in its most ordinary form. Possession. He had decided I was his to manage, his to claim early, his to reduce on paper before I became inconveniently alive.
I folded the documents carefully and slid them back into the envelope.
Then I called Jason again.
He answered on the second ring.
“Mrs. Whitmore?”
“I just wanted to confirm,” I said, “that my account is flagged. No access to anyone but me. No verbal requests. No family exceptions. Nothing.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said immediately. “It’s all in place.”
“Good.”
I hung up, then sat in silence long enough to hear the house settling around me.
Robert had built these walls to last.
Not with his own hands—he was an insurance man, not a carpenter—but with the kind of practical devotion that makes a house feel like it’s braced from the inside. He fixed what broke. Repainted what faded. Oiled hinges before they squealed. He believed maintenance was a form of love.
