Just put your name here, Grandma. This kind of money is too much for you now,” her eldest grandson said with a smug smile, nudging the pen closer. Her blank expression vanished in an instant. “I stopped worrying about it yesterday morning,” she said lightly. “Every cent has a new home.” The lawyer stared at his tablet in shock. “It’s all gone.” She smiled, extinguished the candles, and added, “Best birthday gift I’ve ever given myself.”

The dining room of the Blackwood Estate smelled of lemon polish and decay. It was a smell I had grown accustomed to over the last decade, ever since my husband, Arthur, passed away and the house became too large for one woman and her memories. But tonight, beneath the scent of old wood, there was something else. A sharp, metallic tang.

The scent of greed.

I sat at the head of the mahogany table, my wheelchair positioned exactly where Arthur’s chair used to be. My hands, spotted with age and trembling with a rhythmic tremor I had perfected over six months of practice, rested on the lace tablecloth.