I printed everything, added it to the folders, photographed each page, uploaded to three separate cloud accounts. If they destroyed the physical evidence, I’d still have backups.
My phone rang. Unknown number.
“Hello, Mrs. Gable. This is Rick Sanderson. I’m the contractor Dylan Thompson recommended. He said you might need someone for repairs.”
“I didn’t ask for a contractor.”
“I know,” Rick said. “Dylan was worried. He said your son has been making claims. Dylan thought you might need someone local, someone who could document the actual condition of the property in case you need to dispute any false claims about necessary repairs.”
I understood immediately. “You’re offering to be a witness.”
“I’m offering to do a legitimate property assessment for your records. No charge.”
“And if my son’s been lying about the lodge’s condition,” I asked, “why would you do this?”
Rick’s voice softened. “My mother went through something similar. Her second husband tried to have her declared incompetent so he could control her estate. By the time we figured it out, he’d already transferred half her assets. I won’t watch it happen to someone else if I can help.”
“When can you come up?”
“I’m 20 minutes away. If you’re free now.”
“I’ll have coffee ready,” I said.
Rick Sanderson arrived in a white pickup truck with Sanderson and Sons Construction on the side. 50-something, workworn hands, eyes that had seen too much hardship.
He walked the property with me for 3 hours. Checked every system—electrical, plumbing, heating, examined the roof, the foundation, the septic.
“Your brother maintained this place like a cathedral,” Rick said, making notes on his tablet. “The roof was replaced 6 years ago. Should last another 20. Heating system is old but functioning perfectly. He had it serviced annually. Foundation is solid stone. No cracks. Plumbing is copper, original to the 1923 build. Valuable. Actually, people pay premium for this kind of craftsmanship now.”
“So if someone claimed it needed extensive repairs,” I said, “they’d be lying.”
“They’d be lying or trying to justify unnecessary work.” He showed me his notes. “I’ll write this up formally, notarized. If you need it for legal purposes.”
“I’ll need it.”
He nodded. Didn’t ask why. Didn’t need to.
Before he left, Rick handed me his card. On the back, he’d written a phone number.
“If things get dangerous,” he said quietly, “that’s my brother. He’s a sheriff’s deputy in the next county. Not official jurisdiction here, but he knows people. Knows how to handle situations where families turn ugly.”
“You think it will?” I asked.
“I’ve been doing this 30 years,” Rick said. “I’ve seen what desperation does to people. Your son owes money to dangerous people. His wife has a history of fraud. This lodge is worth over a million dollars.” He met my eyes. “They’re not going to give up. And when people like that get desperate, they get dangerous.”
After Rick left, I sat on the porch in the rain. Let the cold soak through Robert’s flannel shirt. Watched the mountains disappear into cloud.
Dangerous.
I’d been thinking of this as a legal battle, a family drama. But Rick was right. This was bigger.
James owed $350,000 to someone named David Sterling. If he couldn’t pay, what would Sterling do?
And Bella—she’d already destroyed four families. What would she do to secure her fifth score?
I thought about the locked office, about James having a key, about him knowing there were documents in the safe.
What if he didn’t give up? What if he tried to break in again? What if he tried to force me to sign papers?
What if?
And this thought made my blood run cold.
What if they decided I was the obstacle?
Elderly woman living alone. Isolated property. Heart condition. Accidents happened all the time.
I went inside, locked every door, every window, checked them twice.
Then I called Thomas Whitfield one more time.
“I need to update my will,” I said. “Tonight, tomorrow, whatever it takes.”
“What are you thinking?” Thomas asked.
“If anything happens to me—anything suspicious—I want a full investigation. I want the trigger clause activated immediately. I want every asset I have to go to charity, not to James. And I want Dylan Thompson and Rick Sanderson to serve as witnesses to my mental state and the threats I’ve received.”
“Evelyn,” Thomas said carefully, “do you think you’re in danger?”
“I think I’m an inconvenience worth $1.38 million to people who have already proven they’re willing to commit fraud.”
Thomas was quiet for a long moment. “I’ll draft the update tonight. We’ll meet tomorrow morning first thing. And Evelyn—consider staying somewhere else.”
“A hotel? A friend’s house? No. If I leave, they’ll know they’ve won. That I’m scared.”
“Being scared isn’t weakness,” Thomas said. “It’s wisdom.”
“Robert didn’t run,” I replied. “I won’t either.”
That night, I barely slept. Every sound was a potential threat. Every creak of old timber was an intruder.
At 3:00 a.m., I heard a car in the driveway. I grabbed my phone, dialed 911, but didn’t press send. Waited. The car idled for 5 minutes, then drove away.
In the morning, I found tire tracks in the mud and footprints leading to the office window. Someone had tried to look inside, had stood there peering through the glass.
They were watching.
Planning.
