“Allison,” Daniel said, pulling into traffic, “I’ve practiced law for twenty-six years. I have never been more certain of anything.”
Then he smiled slightly.
“That house is yours. It has always been yours. And in roughly three hours, the Monroe family is going to discover something the state of Georgia has known for more than a year.”
I looked down at the manila folder in my lap.
Inside it was the truth Patricia had never bothered to investigate.
To understand what happened next, you need to understand the house.
The Monroe home sat on Habersham Road in Buckhead.
A brick colonial built in the 1920s.
White columns.
Slate roof.
A full acre of carefully maintained grounds.
It had belonged to the Monroe family for three generations.
Patricia spoke about it as if it were sacred.
Grant and Vivian had grown up there.
The first Thanksgiving I attended as Grant’s fiancée, Patricia made it very clear that I was a guest.
Not family.
A guest.
She watched how I arranged my silverware.
She praised whatever food I brought with the faintly insulting tone of a woman complimenting hired help.
And for years, she reminded me that the house represented the Monroe legacy.
There was only one problem.
Patricia didn’t own it.
She never had.
The house belonged to her husband, Walter Monroe.
Walter was Grant’s father.
Quiet.
Kind.
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