I carried the envelope inside and opened it at the kitchen table where my father and I had shared ten thousand cups of coffee. His handwriting was thinner than it used to be, but the words were steady. He wrote that he had known, in his final months, exactly what was happening around him. He had watched Rowan grow close to Preston. He had noticed the quiet visits, the whispered phone calls, the way both men circled his estate like it was already theirs. And he wanted me to know that nothing I would hear at the reading tomorrow was an accident. Everything had been arranged.

The last line stopped my breath. “Whatever they claim I said in my final weeks, remember this: I recorded my true wishes with Delia six months before I got sick, when my mind was sharp and no one was watching. Trust her. Trust the roses.” I read it three times. Then the doorbell rang, and Delia stood on the porch with a leather folder pressed to her chest and an expression I had never seen on her before. “Marguerite,” she said quietly, “before tomorrow, there’s something you need to know about what Rowan and Odette have been planning. And it’s worse than you think.”