Alone with the Envelope
The lawyer’s office was still humming with the low whirr of the old ceiling fan when I finally slipped the envelope into my lap.
Mr. Hargrove sat behind his mahogany desk, his expression as stone‑cold as the polished surface.
“Mrs. Duvall, I understand your shock,” he said, voice measured, “but I must ask you to wait until nightfall before you open that.”
