I stood up from my chair, smoothed my skirt down over my knee, and walked to the wooden witness box.

Julian’s lawyer stepped close to the railing, leaning forward with his hands behind his back.

“Miss Moreno, is it true that you lived closer to your father than your brother did during his final months?” he asked.

“I lived ten minutes away on Elm Street,” I said.

“And you brought him his prescriptions, managed his daily mail, and took him to his doctor visits?”

“I did,” I said.