And Nora told her. She told her about April, the life insurance and the will. May, the healthcare directive and the power of attorney. The beneficiary update. The little yellow flags. Her mother at the dining room table with the black zippered case, the stamp, the journal. Grant explaining each page in his calm voice. Dinners afterward. How it had felt like being taken care of.
Priya's face didn't change as she listened, which was how Nora knew it was bad.
"He texted me not to touch the stuff on the desk," Nora said.
"Did he."
They went into the den together. Leo's den—wood paneling, a window onto the front yard, the old rolltop desk Grant had commandeered as an office. The papers were where Grant had said they'd be: a neat stack squared to the corner of the blotter, yellow flags sticking out of the right edge like a row of tiny pennants.
The top sheet was the life insurance beneficiary form, exactly as promised. Nora's name, the baby's name blank, Grant's name as primary. Under that, a two-page "Acknowledgment of Policy Terms." Under that—
Priya picked it up by its edges, as if it might be evidence. It was evidence.
DEED OF TRUST. HOME EQUITY LINE OF CREDIT. Delta Federal Credit Union. Maximum principal amount: three hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Property address: the address of the house they were standing in. Trustor: GRANT M. HOLLIS AND NORA C. HOLLIS, HUSBAND AND WIFE, AS COMMUNITY PROPERTY WITH RIGHT OF SURVIVORSHIP.
The yellow flag was at the bottom of page six. SIGN HERE, it said, in Grant's handwriting, with a little smiley face.
Nora sat down in Leo's desk chair without meaning to.
"Husband and wife," she said. "Community property. It's not—that's not how it's titled. It's mine. It's titled to me."
"It was," Priya said quietly.
She opened her laptop on the rolltop. Nora watched her go to the Sacramento County Clerk-Recorder's website and type in the property owner's name, and then, when that returned nothing useful, type in Grant's. There was a pause while the page loaded. Priya leaned in. She scrolled. Then she sat back, and for the first time since Nora had known her—fourteen years, two breakups, one bar exam, one wedding—Priya Raman said nothing at all for a very long time.