I set the phone down, wrapped my hands around the tea mug, let the warmth seep into my arthritic joints.
Protect yourself.
Robert had given me the tools, the legal protections, the evidence, the warnings.
Now I just had to be strong enough to use them.
I didn’t answer James’s calls. Didn’t respond to his texts. Let Bella’s voicemails pile up, unlisted.
I spent the time learning the lodge again. Every room, every closet, every hiding place from childhood games of hide-and-seek.
I found Robert’s journal in his bedroom nightstand. Leatherbound pages filled with his doctor’s orders handwriting.
The entries from the last year were painful to read.
June 15th: James called again asking about my health. Not how are you feeling, but have you updated your will lately? I pretended not to notice.
July: Evelyn visited, brought her famous zucchini bread. Didn’t tell her about the stage 4 diagnosis. She has enough to worry about. Her apartment building is selling. She’s looking at places she can barely afford.
August 10th: Caught James in my office. He said he was looking for old photos. The safe was warm when I checked later. He tried to open it. Failed.
September 3rd: Met with Thomas. Set up the trigger clause. If I’m right about James and Bella, this will protect Eevee. If I’m wrong, she can override it. Either way she chooses, not them.
September 28th: James brought Bella to dinner. She asked detailed questions about the property value, maintenance costs, insurance. Took photos of every room with her phone. They think I don’t notice.
October 15th: Chest pains worse. Hospital says maybe 3 months. Haven’t told anyone. Need to finish securing everything for Eevee first.
November 1st: Change the safe combination. Added new documents. If Eevee finds this, she’ll know what to do. She’s stronger than she thinks.
The journal ended there, three weeks before he died.
I sat on his bed holding the journal and cried for my brother, for the son I’d raised who’d become someone I didn’t recognize, for the future that should have been different.
Then I dried my eyes, put the journal back, went downstairs to make dinner.
That’s when I heard the voices outside.
Through the kitchen window, I saw them: James and Bella, standing next to a county assessor’s truck. A woman in a government jacket was walking the property perimeter with them, taking notes.
I opened the door, stepped onto the porch. “What’s going on?”
The assessor looked up, startled.
James smiled, that too-bright smile that meant he was caught. “Mom. Hi. This is Linda from the county assessor’s office. Just doing a routine evaluation for the property records.”
“Routine?” I repeated.
Linda looked between us, clearly sensing the tension. “Ma’am, are you the property owner?”
“I am.”
“Then I apologize.” Linda closed her notebook. “I was told the owner had requested this assessment for potential rezoning.”
“I requested no such thing.”
James jumped in. “I must have miscommunicated. Linda, sorry for the confusion. We can reschedule—”
“No need to reschedule,” I said, because there will be no rezoning, no assessment, no changes to this property whatsoever.
Linda nodded. “Understood. Mr. Gable, please don’t contact our office again without written permission from the legal owner.”
She shot James a look that suggested this wasn’t the first time she’d dealt with this situation.
After she left, I turned to James and Bella.
“You tried to have it rezoned without telling me.”
“We were being proactive,” Bella said. “The current zoning is residential. To build a resort, we need commercial zoning. It’s a six-month process.”
“I don’t care if it’s a six-year process. You don’t get to make decisions about my property.”
“Technically,” Bella said, her voice going cold, “the property taxes are due in 60 days. $14,000. Where exactly are you planning to get that money?”
My stomach dropped.
I’d seen the property tax bill in Robert’s files. He’d paid a year in advance, but that was 14 months ago. The next payment was coming due. $14,000—more than I had in savings, more than I could earn in 6 months on Social Security.
Bella saw my expression and smiled.
“We were offering to cover it as an investment,” she said, “in exchange for power of attorney to manage the property’s commercial development. You retain ownership. We handle everything else.”
“And my brother’s clause?”
“What clause?”
But her eyes gave her away. She knew. The trigger clause that makes the lodge revert to the National Land Trust.
