I met Patricia Voss at a coffee shop near her office Monday morning.

She was in her mid-fifties, precise in the way that people who spend their careers handling other people's most important documents tend to be.

She arrived before me, had already ordered, and had a small manila folder on the table.

"I brought what I'm legally able to share," she said as I sat down.

"Which isn't much.

But I thought you should see this."

She slid a single sheet across the table.

It was the visitor log from the law office's front desk.

Friday, 2:14 p.m.

Two names.

The first: *Sarah Hartley.* The second: *D.

Mercer.*

"Do you know that name?" Patricia asked.

"No."

"I looked him up after they left.

He's a paralegal — not an attorney.

He works for a firm that specializes in estate disputes.

Small operation.

Three people."

I looked at the name again.

D.

Mercer.

"Sarah hired a paralegal to research contesting her father's will."

"It appears so.

And they were well-prepared.

They knew the date of the updated will.

They knew the approximate value of the estate.

They knew the cottage had been recently renovated." Patricia folded her hands around her cup.

"Someone gave them a detailed briefing before they walked through that door."

Carol had said she only told Sarah that changes had been made.

But whoever briefed D.

Mercer knew specifics — renovation timelines, property values, estate figures.

That wasn't Carol.

"Is there anyone else," I asked slowly, "who might have had access to the file?"

Patricia was quiet for a moment.

"Our office had a temp working through an agency for six weeks earlier this year.

She left in March.

I didn't think anything of it at the time."

"Do you have her name?"

Patricia opened the folder and slid out a second sheet.

A staffing agency form.

The temp's name was listed at the top.

*Kelsey Donahue.*

I didn't recognize it.

But I took a photo of the sheet with my phone.

"One more thing," Patricia said.

She reached into the folder a final time and placed a business card on the table.

"The man — Mercer — he left this.

I don't know if he meant to or if it was deliberate.

But he set it on the edge of the desk when he stood up and didn't take it back."

I picked it up.

Plain white card.

*D.

Mercer, Estate Research Consultant.* A phone number.

And below that, in small print, a firm name.

*Donahue & Associates.*

I set the card down.

"Same name," I said.

"Same name," Patricia confirmed.

I drove home with the business card on the passenger seat.

Kelsey Donahue.

D.

Mercer of Donahue & Associates.

A temp who had spent six weeks with access to Richard's file.

A paralegal who walked into the attorney's office already knowing everything.

This wasn't Sarah acting alone.

Sarah didn't have the patience for this kind of planning.

Someone had been building this quietly, long before the moving truck appeared on my mother's street.

My phone rang.

Sarah.

I let it ring four times.

Then I answered.

"Mom." Her voice was controlled.

Careful.

Not the shouting from the diner.

"I think we got off on the wrong foot.

I'd like to sit down and talk properly.

Just the two of us."

"All right," I said.

"When?"

"Tomorrow.

Lunch.

Somewhere neutral."

"Fine."

"And Mom?" A beat.

"Don't bring your attorney."

I looked at the business card on the seat beside me.

"Of course not," I said.