“She assumes you’re afraid of being thrown out,” Vance said.

“She tried to destroy your father’s original revocable trust filings six weeks after he went into hospice care.”

The room went completely quiet except for the hum of the small electric heater in the corner.

“What filings did she try to destroy?” I asked.

Vance stood up slowly, his tall frame stooping a little as he reached into his vest pocket for a small brass key.

“Your father came to this office four years ago on a rainy Tuesday morning,” Vance said, walking toward the back wall of the room.