Edward Miller put his cup down and pushed a single envelope across the wicker table, and the return address in the corner read Greenville County Probate Court.

It was the third one that week.

This was the only one with my rank printed on it, Warrant Officer D.

Hayward, spelled out in full as though the county wanted to make sure I would respond.

“That’s a notice of intent to contest,” Edward said.

He removed his wire-rimmed glasses and wiped them with a handkerchief.

“It was filed on Tuesday.

Your uncle is the one contesting.”

The page stated that Robert Hayward, through his lawyer, was contesting the will of Ruth Hayward on the grounds that she lacked the mental capacity to make a will when she signed it.

“Capacity,” I said.

“She balanced her own checkbook in September.

She wrote out the electric bill by hand and walked it down to the corner.”

“An opening move isn’t an argument.” Edward slipped his glasses back on and rotated his cup a quarter turn.

“He has thirty days to file the actual petition.”

The brass key to the front door lay on the table next to my hand.

I had carried it ever since the funeral, and my thumb had rubbed a shine into the bow.

“So the house is frozen,” I said.

“The house stays yours until a judge rules otherwise.” He lined the stack of mail up against the edge of the table.