She frowned.
“You haven’t transferred it.”
“I know.”
“That’s my point.”
Then I left.
I did not go to a hotel.
I drove to Lily Hayes.
Lily had been my attorney for nearly a decade, although she preferred the phrase “outside counsel” because it sounded less like I regularly arrived at her house carrying disasters.
She opened the door wearing sweatpants and holding a bowl of cereal.
“It’s eleven-thirty.”
“I know.”
“You look like someone either committed fraud or proposed a destination wedding.”
“Possibly fraud.”
She moved aside.
“Come in.”
Twenty minutes later, documents covered her dining table.
Lily read silently.
She was excellent at silence.
It made people confess things just to fill it.
Finally she held up one statement.
“What is Cedarcrest Residential Holdings?”
“My LLC.”
“Premarital?”
“Yes.”
“You created it eight months before marrying Adrian?”
“Yes.”
“And it owns the Cedarcrest Heights house?”
“Yes.”
“Entirely?”
“Yes.”
I nodded.
“My grandmother left me money.”
