At 6:05 the next morning, the door opened again.
A woman in a gray raincoat stood in the doorway, fifty-eight and sensible, with a rolled umbrella and a leather portfolio under her arm.
“Janet Kowalczyk,” she said. “Probate. I was Esther Treadwell’s cousin, and I handled her estate, and I haven’t slept much since Anders called me at four. Is this a good time?”
“There’s no good time left,” I said.
“Then this is as good as any.”
She opened her portfolio on the foot of the bed and laid out printouts from the Bellmont County Probate Court docket.
“Estate of Edna Gilchrist,” she said. “Opened September 1995.”
My grandmother’s name, in black type.
“Article Four. Your grandmother left Alderwood Farm, sixty-two acres, appraised last spring at two point four million, along with a brokerage account of about three hundred eighty thousand dollars, in trust for ‘the first child born to my granddaughter Michelle.'”
