MY BROTHER JUST STOPPED READING THE WILL AND STARED AT ME
The lawyer cleared his throat, adjusted his glasses, and then my brother’s face just went completely white, his eyes fixed on the paper.
The room went silent, a heavy, suffocating silence like a vacuum sucked all the air out the moment the lawyer finished that one single line about the property deeds. His eyes, usually so bright and sharp when he was negotiating deals or arguing with Mom, looked dull and distant now, fixed on the page in front of him like it held some terrible secret just for him.
He slowly dropped the paper onto the glossy surface of the polished mahogany desk with a soft, echoing thud that seemed impossibly loud in the quiet. He finally looked up, his gaze locking onto mine across the table, and his voice was a low, dangerous growl I’d only ever heard him use once before. “You knew about this part, didn’t you? About *her*?”
A cold, clammy sweat instantly broke out on the back of my neck, prickling my skin. The faint, dusty smell of old paper and furniture polish that usually comforted me in the lawyer’s office suddenly felt overwhelmingly stale and thick in my lungs. I genuinely didn’t know *what* he meant; the will was supposed to be a simple split, nothing complicated, no “her.”
Before I could even form a word, before I could ask him what in God’s name he was talking about or who ‘she’ was, there was a sharp, insistent knock on the heavy oak door. The secretary outside opened it just a crack.
“Mr. Davies,” she said softly, “there’s a detective here asking for you.”
👇 Full story continued in the comments…My brother’s gaze didn’t flicker from mine, but I saw a new wave of something flash in his eyes – fear, cold and sharp, quickly masked by a renewed surge of anger. “Don’t act innocent,” he hissed, the low growl still vibrating with a terrifying intensity. “You always were Dad’s favourite, always knew his secrets. This is just like you.”
He didn’t get to finish. The secretary, a small, bird-like woman named Mrs. Gable, opened the door wider, revealing a tall, broad-shouldered man in a dark suit standing in the hallway. He had a calm, weary look about him, but his eyes missed nothing. He stepped into the room, filling the space, and the air felt even thinner.
“Mr. Davies?” the detective said, his voice even and measured, confirming he was indeed asking for my brother. “Detective Miller. Apologies for the interruption, but I need to speak with you urgently regarding your father’s estate. Specifically,” he paused, his gaze sweeping over the table, landing briefly on the scattered will documents, “the property at Elmwood Lane.”
My brother visibly paled further, if that was possible. He swallowed hard, his eyes darting between me, the will, and the detective. The mention of Elmwood Lane property was the key. That was the property mentioned just before my brother stopped reading – a small, unassuming house that had belonged to my paternal grandmother and was supposedly part of the main estate to be split. But the will had said something else, something that had triggered his outburst about “her”.
“What about Elmwood?” my brother managed, his voice tight and strained, completely devoid of its earlier aggression.
Detective Miller’s expression remained neutral, but his gaze seemed to sharpen. “We received a report earlier this morning. A Ms. Clara Jenkins was found deceased at that address.”
A small, strangled gasp escaped my lips. Clara Jenkins? I’d never heard that name in my life. Who was she? Why was she at Grandma’s old house? And why was my brother reacting like he’d been hit by a truck?
“Ms. Jenkins was, according to preliminary information, a resident there for the last five years,” the detective continued, speaking directly to my brother. “Your father had seemingly transferred ownership to her, privately, about six years ago. The will, mentioning the property as part of the divisible estate and instructing its sale for liquid assets, complicates things. We need to understand the nature of your father’s relationship with Ms. Jenkins, your knowledge of her residing there, and this discrepancy in the will.”
He gestured towards the document on the desk. “Your father’s death… while initially appearing to be from natural causes, this new information, and the circumstances surrounding Ms. Jenkins’ death, require further investigation. We understand the will is being read, but we need to secure any documents pertaining to the Elmwood Lane property and speak with family members who might have known about Ms. Jenkins or your father’s dealings with her.”
Everything clicked into place with a sickening lurch. “Her.” Clara Jenkins. A woman living in Grandma’s house that Dad had apparently given her, contradicting the will we were reading right now. My brother hadn’t reacted to *me* knowing a secret; he’d reacted because the will exposed a secret *he* knew, a secret apparently connected to a dead woman and a police investigation.
My brother finally looked away from the detective, his eyes, dark with a mixture of fear and something else I couldn’t decipher, landed on me again. The fury was gone, replaced by a desperate, cornered look. “I… I didn’t know she was dead,” he stammered, his bravado entirely gone. “I only knew… I knew Dad was giving her the house. He made me promise not to tell anyone. He said… he said it was complicated. Something about a debt, or… or maybe a mistake from years ago he was putting right. I didn’t know she was living there permanently, just that he was sorting something out.”
He looked at the detective, pleadingly. “And I certainly didn’t know the will would still list it like that. It doesn’t make sense. He wouldn’t double-cross someone like that.”
Detective Miller nodded slowly, his expression unreadable. “That’s what we need to figure out, Mr. Davies. With both your father and Ms. Jenkins now deceased, unexpectedly… this has become a complex matter. We’ll need everyone’s full cooperation.”
The lawyer, silent until now, cleared his throat again, his earlier discomfort now replaced by a grim understanding. “In light of this development, Detective,” he said carefully, “it would be prudent to suspend the reading of the will until these matters are resolved. The status of the Elmwood Lane property is clearly contentious, and its disposition impacts the entire estate.”
My brother just sat there, slumped, the colour completely drained from his face, the confident businessman replaced by a terrified boy caught in something far beyond him. The terrible secret in the will wasn’t some inheritance trick played on me; it was a hidden life of our father’s, exposed at the worst possible moment, dragging us into a potential criminal investigation. The mystery of “her” was solved, only to reveal a much larger, darker mystery surrounding our family and the quiet house on Elmwood Lane. The lawyer’s office, moments ago a place of anticipated inheritance, had become the cold, sterile prelude to a police station.
