The suit still fit, though tighter across the shoulders and looser where age had taken muscle from me.
I chose a white shirt and no tie. My cufflinks were plain silver, engraved with the date of my twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. Eleanor had given them to me in a restaurant in Minneapolis after I complained that cufflinks were unnecessary vanity.
“Exactly,” she said that night, fastening them for me. “You need at least one unnecessary thing.”
When I looked in the mirror, I did not see the old man Kyle had expected to move quietly into a retirement community. I saw Walter Harmon, attorney at law, retired but not buried.
Frank arrived at seven fifteen with his briefcase and the calm expression of a man prepared to make somebody regret a shortcut.
“Coffee?” I asked.
“Always.”
We sat in the kitchen while the sky turned gray. Neither of us spoke much. Old colleagues do not need to fill silence before confrontation. We reviewed nothing because everything had already been reviewed. Frank placed the certified copies in a folder. I set my phone on the table. The fire took hold in the living room.
At eight sharp, Sheriff Tom Anderson arrived in a county cruiser.
Tom was broad, quiet, and competent. He had served Lake County for twenty-three years and had the kind of presence that discouraged foolishness without inviting drama. Frank had represented his sister in an estate matter years earlier, and Tom trusted Frank enough to show up when asked.
“Morning, Walt,” he said, shaking my hand. “Frank explained enough for me to understand I’m here as a witness unless someone gives me a reason to be more.”
“That’s exactly right.”
“Beautiful place.”
“Yes,” I said. “It is.”
At eight twenty-eight, the first vehicle turned down the driveway.
Kyle’s leased SUV.
Behind it came a black company truck with LAKEFRONT HOLDINGS printed on the door in clean silver letters. The kind of logo designed to make bulldozers seem tasteful.
I watched through the kitchen window as they parked.
Kyle stepped out first, wearing dark jeans, a quilted jacket, and the brittle confidence of a man who had rehearsed optimism in the car. Melissa climbed out beside him in new leather boots and a cream wool coat that looked selected for a future life in Florida, where such coats would be unnecessary but useful in photographs of departure. Her hair was perfectly styled. She held a folder against her chest and scanned the cabin like someone mentally removing furniture.
Three men exited the Lakefront truck. The tallest, square-jawed and broad-shouldered, moved with executive impatience. I recognized him from a quick search: Grant Dorsett, senior acquisitions director. He shook Kyle’s hand with professional warmth.
They were laughing when I stepped outside.
