"You sat in her living room," Diane said. "You listened to her explain thirty-four years as if it were a weather report. And then you told her you'd think about whether she deserves our house."
"I told her I needed time."
"Time to what? Forgive Dad? Adopt his girlfriend? Mom, she lied to your face for eight months while he was dying. She held his hand. She adjusted his pillows. She let you thank her."
Helen set two plates on the table for a dinner neither of them wanted. Lasagna from the freezer. Robert's favorite. The irony was not lost on her; irony had become the house's primary language. "She also offered to refuse the bequest."
"Then let her."
"Maybe I will." Helen sat. "Maybe I won't. What I will not do is make that decision tonight while you are vibrating with a rage that belongs partly to me and partly to the little girl who thought her father was a soccer coach and a man who left the porch light on."
Diane's face crumpled and then rebuilt itself, brick by furious brick. "I hired a private investigator."
Helen stared. "You what?"