The work is grounding. Purposeful. A woman needs emergency housing after her husband found her first safe house. Another needs funds for a custody attorney. A third needs relocation money to leave the state entirely. Each one is trying to leave a marriage like mine, and helping them escape feels like retroactive salvation.
At 11:30, my phone rings. Unknown number. I almost don't answer, but something—instinct, curiosity, the residual training of five years answering every call immediately because Gabriel would be furious if I missed one—makes me pick up.
"Ms. Pope?" A man's voice. Smooth. Familiar in a way that makes my chest tighten. "This is Ezra Pope. Gabriel's brother. I hope I'm not catching you at a bad time."
Ezra. I've met him exactly three times: the wedding, one awkward Christmas dinner, and Gabriel's funeral where he gave a eulogy that made his brother sound like a saint instead of the man who spent five years systematically dismantling my sense of self.
"Ezra. Hello." I keep my voice neutral, professional. "What can I do for you?"
"I was hoping we could meet. There are some matters regarding Gabriel's estate that I'd like to discuss. Nothing urgent, but I think a conversation would be beneficial for both of us."
My pulse picks up. "Malcolm Fielding contacted me this morning about irregularities. Is this related?"
A pause. "Malcolm sometimes overstates concerns. I'm sure whatever he mentioned is easily resolved. But yes, there are a few questions about the estate distribution that I'd like to clarify. Perhaps lunch this week? My treat, obviously. Gabriel would want me to look after you."
The solicitude in his voice is honey over poison. Gabriel would want me to look after you. Translation: Gabriel's family thinks I need supervising, managing. Controlling even.
"I'm quite busy this week," I say. "Perhaps we could handle this over the phone?"
"I'd really prefer to meet in person. These matters are sensitive." His tone shifts, becomes slightly harder. "Gabriel was my brother, Lana. I think I'm entitled to understand what happened to his estate and ensure his wishes are being honored."
There it is. The velvet glove coming off.I'm entitled.His wishes.The implication that I'm somehow not honoringGabriel's memory, not deserving of what he left me, not trustworthy to manage what's legally mine.
"Thursday," I say, making a decision I'll probably regret. "Lunch on Thursday. Text me the location."
"Wonderful. I'll choose somewhere appropriate. Thank you, Lana. I know this must be difficult for you." His voice gentles in a way that feels practiced. "Gabriel's death was a tragedy. I just want to make sure his legacy is protected."
The call ends. I sit there holding my phone, staring at Solange, who's been watching this entire exchange with increasing concern.
"That was Gabriel's brother," I say.
"I gathered. What does he want?"
"To challenge the estate. He's being polite about it, but that's what's happening. Malcolm Fielding texted about irregularities this morning. Now Ezra wants lunch to discuss 'sensitive matters.'" I set down my phone before I throw it. "They think I manipulated Gabriel. Or they're going to claim I did."
Solange's expression hardens. "Can they do that? Contest the will?"
"Anyone can contest anything with enough money and lawyers. Whether they'll win is different." I think about the will Gabriel had drawn up two years into our marriage, the one that left everything to me with no contingencies, no conditions. He'd presented it like a gift.I want you taken care of if anything happens to me.What he meant was:I want you so financially dependent that leaving becomes impossible.
The irony is that his insurance policy became my escape route.
"You need a lawyer," Solange says. "Not Malcolm—he was Gabriel's attorney. Someone who represents you, not the estate."
"I know." I pull out my phone again, start searching for estate attorneys in Miramont. The task feels overwhelming. Every decision since Gabriel died has felt like walking through fog—I can see a few feet ahead, but the destination remains unclear.
My phone buzzes with a text. Unknown number:Thursday, 1 PM. Marconi's. Looking forward to our conversation. — Ezra
Marconi's. Gabriel's favorite restaurant. The place he took clients when he wanted to impress them with old-money sophistication and new-money excess. Ezra choosing that location is intentional. A reminder that Gabriel's world was his first, that I'm the interloper who benefited from tragedy.
I show Solange the text. She reads it, then meets my eyes. "You're not going alone."
"I have to. If I bring someone, it looks like I'm afraid of him."
"You should be afraid of him. He's challenging your legal right to Gabriel's estate. That means he's prepared to fight dirty." She pulls up something on her computer. "I'm coming with you. I'll sit at a different table, close enough to intervene if needed. You won't even know I'm there."
"Solange—"
"This isn't negotiable. You walked into that marriage alone. You're not walking through the aftermath alone." Her voice is firm. "Besides, remember those encrypted files you gave me? The ones from Gabriel's hard drive? I've been working through them, and they connect to accounts that don't match theestate records. If Ezra wants to talk about irregularities, I have questions about where Gabriel's money was actually going."
