Then the black car pulled up.
People at diners notice everything. They notice who walks in alone, who avoids eye contact, who counts cash before ordering, who is celebrating, who is trying not to cry, who stays too long over coffee because going home feels harder than sitting still. So when a sleek car stopped at the curb and a man in a dark coat stepped out holding a leather portfolio, every head near the window turned at once.
The man entered with the careful posture of someone used to delivering serious news. He scanned the room, spotted Naomi, and asked for her by full name.
For one strange second, she thought something had happened to her daughter.
That was where her mind went first. Not money. Not opportunity. Not mystery. A mother’s imagination rarely takes the scenic route. It goes straight to the thing she loves most and fears losing.
But the lawyer’s expression was calm, almost solemn in a different way.
“Ms. Brooks,” he said, “I’m here on behalf of the estate of Mr. Henry Callaway.”
