I arrived early and helped Mom slice apples for pie. Dad pretended not to hover, but he kept glancing toward the driveway.
He knew Vanessa was coming.
He also knew about the will.
Word traveled fast in families like ours.
At 2:17 p.m., a black sedan pulled up.
Not chauffeured.
Driven by her.
She stepped out wearing oversized sunglasses despite the overcast sky. Her clothes were still designer—but not new. Not fresh from runway previews. Last season.
Her heels clicked uncertainly on the walkway she’d run down barefoot as a child.
Mom opened the door before Vanessa knocked.
For a second, none of us spoke.
Then Vanessa removed her sunglasses.
Her eyes were rimmed red—not from staged tears this time, but from lack of sleep.
“Hi,” she said.
We moved into the living room. The same floral couch. The same framed family photos.
The same air of memory.
Dad excused himself deliberately. Mom followed.
That left the two of us.
Vanessa didn’t sit at first. She paced once, twice.
Then she turned to me.
“You knew,” she said.
“Knew what?”
“That he was going to do this.”
“No.”
She studied my face for signs of deceit.
“There’s no way he could have changed his will that fast,” she pressed. “We were married.”
“You were married for nine days.”
Her jaw tightened.
“He was under stress,” she said. “People influenced him.”
“Did you?”
Her eyes flashed.
“That’s not fair.”
I leaned back against the couch, folding my arms loosely. “What do you want, Vanessa?”
She hesitated.
“Appendix C.”
The room felt colder.
“I need to know what’s in it.”
I held her gaze.
“I’ve never seen it.”
Her eyebrows drew together. “That’s impossible.”
“It remains sealed unless you contest the will.”
“Which I can’t do,” she snapped, then caught herself.
