He rubbed his face with both hands. “You’re getting older. This house is too much for you.”
“I pay every bill.”
“You forget things.”
“I forgot nothing.”
“You left the stove on.”
“Once. Three years ago. The day Helen’s sister died, when I was making soup after the funeral.”
Melissa stepped closer. “Mr. Bennett, denial is common at your age.”
I looked at her for a long time.
Then I said, “Take off the robe.”
She did not move.
I walked past them, opened the front door, and stepped onto the porch.
Across the street, Mrs. Romero was watering her roses. She looked up and waved. I waved back.
Then I called my attorney.
His name was Samuel Whitaker. He had handled Helen’s estate after she died. He was eighty-one, sharper than broken glass, and had known me long enough not to waste time with polite pretending.
