I Was Paid to Pretend to Be His Granddaughter — Then His Final Wish Shocked His Family
“Mrs. Booker-Hale, I’m going to need the watch.”
Patrice looked down at the Cartier on her wrist.
The watch a private had saved eleven months for.
The one that ticked as steady as he did.
“It’s a family—”
“It’s in the will,” Mr. Abernathy said. “Item three. ‘To Kiara, from whose wrist it was taken.’”
Patrice unclasped it.
Her hands were not steady.
She held it out, and Kiara did not take it — I did, because Kiara’s hands had gone to her face — and I fastened it on Kiara’s wrist myself, in her grandfather’s kitchen, in front of the boxes and the bag of letters and the window full of neighbors.
“There,” I said. “It’s back where he could hear it.”
Lorna Pike read Patrice her situation in the flat voice of a woman who has done it forty times.
The power of attorney, the account, Marcus, the letters.
Patrice did not argue.
