I simply put the phone on the table in the café and turned on the speakerphone.
They continued talking.
My father continued to say that Grandpa’s house would be sold by Monday, that the bills had been “taken care of,” and that I shouldn’t show up because “I would only bring shame on myself.”
My mother interrupted, mocking how Grandpa had once called me his “only honest family.”
They looked relieved, even proud.
I saw the steam rising from my coffee.
On the other side of the table sat a man in a dark suit, calm and composed, his fingers gripping a porcelain cup.
He didn’t interrupt me.
He didn’t respond.
He just sat there, his eyes fixed on me, his face expressionless.
This was no coincidence.
I had come for morning coffee because Grandpa had asked me to meet someone in case something happened to him.
“Trust this person,” he had told me weeks earlier.
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