Chapter 4: My Mother’s Warning
I stared at the four words on the envelope until the ink seemed to blur.
*DO NOT TRUST SARAH.*
Linda stood beside me, breathing hard from the walk up the driveway.
Sarah hadn't moved.
“What is that?”” she asked.
I looked at her.
“You tell me.””
Her face went pale.
“I don't know.””
Linda folded her arms.
“That's funny, because I found it exactly where your mother told me to look.””
Sarah's eyes narrowed.
“You talked to Grandma before she died?””
“No,” Linda said.
“But your grandmother talked to me.””
I looked at Linda.
“When?””
“Three days before she passed.””
My fingers tightened around the envelope.
“You never told me.””
“She made me promise.””
“Why?””
Linda looked toward Sarah.
“Because she was afraid you'd ignore her warning if you thought she was being dramatic.””
Sarah scoffed.
“This is ridiculous.””
I opened the envelope.
Inside was a single sheet of yellowed paper.
My mother's handwriting filled the page.
Claire,
If you're reading this, something has gone wrong.
I don't know exactly what will happen after I'm gone, but I know Sarah has been asking questions about the cottage that she shouldn't be asking.
She asked me whether the property would automatically become hers.
I told her no.
She asked whether you could be persuaded to sell it.
I told her no.
Then she asked whether your husband had ever put anything in writing about the cottage.
That frightened me.
I stopped reading.
Sarah took a step forward.
“Mom, give me that.””
“No.””
“It's private.””
“It was written to me.””
“She was confused near the end.””
Linda made a sharp sound.
“Don't you dare.””
Sarah looked at her.
“You weren't family.””
“No,” Linda said.
“But I was there when your grandmother called me.””
Sarah's jaw tightened.
I continued reading.
There is one more thing.
Your husband came to see me six months before he died.
He told me he was worried about Sarah.
He said she had been asking him for money and had become interested in the cottage.
He asked me to keep something safe for you.
I have done so.
If Sarah ever tries to move into the cottage, sell it, renovate it, or convince anyone that you cannot manage your own affairs, go to the place where your father kept his old fishing equipment.
The key is taped beneath the third shelf.
Trust no one who tells you this is about helping you.
Love,
Mom.
I lowered the page.
Sarah was crying.
“Mom, please.””
I looked at her.
“You knew.””
“I didn't.””
“You knew about Dad.””
“No.””
“Then why did you say he wanted you to have the cottage?””
She wiped her cheek.
“Because I thought he did.””
“That isn't an answer.””
Greg stepped forward.
“Claire, Sarah didn't mean—”
“Don't.””
He stopped.
I looked at the SUV.
Then at the envelope.
Then back at my daughter.
“Where is the fishing equipment?””
Sarah's expression changed.
Only for a second.
But I saw it.
She knew exactly where it was.
“Sarah?””
She shook her head.
“I have no idea.””
Linda whispered, “That's a lie.””
Sarah turned toward her.
“You need to leave.””
“This is my property,” I said.
Sarah looked at me.
“No.””
The word came out strangely calm.
I frowned.
“What did you say?””
She took a breath.
“I said you don't understand what's happening.””
Then she turned toward Greg.
“Give her the folder.””
Greg looked terrified.
“Sarah…”
“Give it to her.””
He handed me the folder.
Inside were copies of my deed, tax records, renovation estimates, bank statements, and something else.
A document titled:
*Durable Power of Attorney.*
My signature appeared at the bottom.
I stared at it.
The signature looked like mine.
But I had never signed that document.
Linda leaned closer.
“Claire…”
I looked at the date.
It was from six months earlier.
The month after my husband died.
And underneath the signature was a witness name I recognized.
My daughter's name.
Sarah stepped closer.
“Mom, listen to me.””
I looked up.
“Who notarized this?””
She didn't answer.
Then my phone buzzed.
A text from Daniel.
*Claire, I checked the permit file. Someone already submitted plans to the county.*
A second message appeared.
*The permit lists Sarah as the authorized owner’s representative.*
I looked at my daughter.
May you like
She was no longer crying.
And that frightened me more than anything else.
