Dad leaned toward the speaker.
“Then I suggest you check your paperwork one more time, because you seem to be celebrating a funeral that never happened.”
The laughter stopped. Completely.
For several seconds, there was only the click of Vanessa’s turn signal. Then she whispered:
“Dad?”
“Apparently.”
Grant grabbed the phone.
“What kind of game is this?”
Dad looked at me.
“Good morning to you too, Grant.”
Vanessa started crying. Or trying to sound like she might.
“Dad, there’s been a misunderstanding.”
“You announced my death to your sister.”
“We got a message.”
“What message?”
Silence.
Then Grant said, “Someone said Harold found you.” Dad’s eyes narrowed. Harold Pike was his best friend. Retired funeral-home owner.
Exactly the kind of name that made the lie sound believable. Dad picked up my phone and called Harold. Harold answered after two rings.
“Art?”
“Did you announce my death to anyone?”
“What?”
“The last time you saw me, was I dead?”
Harold laughed.
“You were complaining about my coffee yesterday.”
Dad looked at the phone on the table.
“Thank you.”
He hung up. Vanessa said:
“Dad, we got a text. We thought—”
“You thought I was dead and within an hour you were changing locks, calling the bank, and evaluating my truck.”
Silence.
Dad asked for a screenshot of the message. It came from a prepaid number. Arthur died last night. Harold is handling the body. Contact the bank and attorney quickly. Dad read it twice.
“Convenient.”
What Vanessa did not know was that Dad had already been uneasy for two days. He had found an unauthorized property valuation. A draft power of attorney. Copies of signatures. Notes connected to Grant.
That was why he had quietly packed a bag and come to stay with me. We had planned to see his attorney Friday. Now there was no reason to wait. Dad said:
“Natalie and I will be at the house in two hours. Harold will be there. My lawyer too. Nobody touches my office, my truck, or the locks.”
Vanessa answered:
“Natalie has no reason to be involved.”
Dad’s voice turned cold.
“Natalie is involved because I chose her to be.”
That silenced her. He hung up. Then sat down.
For the first time that morning, he looked tired. I asked:
“Do you really want to go today?”
“Yes.”
“It can wait.”
“No. Now I know they are not waiting.”
He looked at the message again. Then at the papers he had brought from home.
“And I want to know who sent that text.”
For the first time, I wondered whether the fake death was really a mistake. Or a rehearsal.
