The next morning, Margaret Coleman answered on the second ring.

“Cecily Ashford,” she said. Her voice carried the rasp of someone who’d smoked for decades and laughed even longer. “I’ve been wondering when you’d call.”

“You know who I am?” I asked.

“Sweetheart, your grandmother and I built half of this city together in the seventies. She talked about you constantly,” she said.

A pause followed. “She also told me about the will three years ago, right before she passed,” she added.

I gripped my phone tighter. “Then you know what I’m about to do,” I said.