“Then I go home.”
That evening Garrett was waiting with wine poured in the kitchen.
He kissed my cheek.
I almost recoiled, but grief had taught me something useful: sometimes your body can perform a ritual while your mind is somewhere else entirely.
“How was Harrison?” he asked.
“Paperwork.”
“Anything complicated?”
“Not really.”
His shoulders loosened.
He slid a glass toward me.
I didn’t drink it.
Two days later he produced the first folder.
He called it estate planning.
The documents would have granted him broad authority to act for me on financial matters.
He presented them casually over breakfast, explaining that I shouldn’t have to carry every decision while grieving.
“Let me handle the boring things,” he said.
I looked at the signature line.
“I’ll read it later.”
A flicker crossed his face.
Gone almost immediately.
“Of course.”
The following morning he tried again.
By the fourth day, kindness had acquired an edge.
“Your mother ran everything herself,” he said.
“That doesn’t mean you need to.”
“I’m capable of reading a document.”
“I didn’t say you weren’t.”
“Then why are you rushing me?”
His smile disappeared for half a second.
“I’m trying to protect you.”
It was almost impressive how naturally he said it.
Sienna arrived that afternoon.
She looked worse than she had at the will reading.
Her hands shook around a cup of coffee.
Garrett left us in the sitting room and claimed he had a call.
The moment he disappeared, Sienna whispered, “Don’t sign anything.”
I looked at her.
She stared at the carpet.
“Why?”
“Just don’t.”
“You came here to tell me that?”
She nodded.
“Look at me, Sienna.”
When she finally did, fear was written plainly across her face.
I thought of the courtyard.
Her question after Garrett said he needed two weeks.
And after that?
She had been frightened then too.
“What did you do?” I asked.
Her eyes filled.
“I made mistakes.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“I owed people money.
Garrett offered to help.
At first he moved money around for me.
Then he had records.
