That part saved me.
I put the deeds back in the envelope, but I didn’t put it in the suitcase just yet.
First, I took out my phone and dialed a number I had saved for months.
“Hello,” a young professional voice answered.
“Megan, it’s your Aunt Beatatrice.”
“Aunt B? What a surprise. How are you?”
Megan was my niece, my younger sister’s daughter, a lawyer specializing in family law. Thirty-eight years old, two kids, a recent divorce that made her fierce in court.
“I need your help,” I said. “It’s urgent. Can you come over early tomorrow?”
There was a pause.
“Aunt B, are you okay? Your voice sounds strange.”
“I’m perfect. For the first time in three years, I’m perfect. But I need your help with a legal matter about my house.”
“My house?”
“I thought you were living with Daniel and Emily.”
