I spent Sunday afternoon going through every conversation I could remember — every phone call, every dinner, every passing mention of Richard's estate over the past two years.

Someone had told Sarah about the updated will.

That didn't happen by accident.

There were only four people who knew: my attorney, his paralegal, my sister Carol, and my oldest friend, Diane.

I ruled out the attorney's office quickly.

They had too much to lose.

The paralegal had never met Sarah.

That left Carol and Diane.

I called Carol first.

She picked up on the second ring.

"I was wondering when you'd call."

"Did you tell Sarah about Richard's will?"

A pause.

Not a surprised pause.

A prepared one.

"She called me crying," Carol said.

"She said you were cutting her off completely.

She said she didn't even know why."

"Carol.

Did you tell her?"

"I told her that Richard had made some changes before he passed.

I didn't give her details.

I just — she's your daughter.

I thought she deserved to know something was coming."

I set my coffee cup down on the counter.

"You had no right to do that."

"She's family."

"So am I."

The line went quiet.

Then Carol said, "She told me you gave her a grocery store gift card and walked out of a diner.

Is that true?"

"Yes."

"That's cold, Ellen."

"She tried to move into my house, Carol.

She impersonated me to my attorney.

She had been planning this for weeks while I was still renovating the place.

What exactly did you expect me to do?"

Another silence.

Longer this time.

"I didn't know about the attorney," Carol said finally.

Her voice had changed.

"She didn't tell me that part."

"No.

I don't imagine she did."

I ended the call and stood at the kitchen window for a moment.

The garden was still.

The cottage was twelve minutes away.

I had put new locks on every door and cameras at every corner, but none of that stopped the feeling that something was already in motion — something I hadn't fully seen yet.

My phone buzzed.

A text from a number I didn't recognize.

*Mrs.

Hartley.

My name is Patricia Voss.

I was Richard's paralegal for nine years.

I think we need to speak.

It's about the will — and about a conversation I had last week that I should have reported sooner.

Please call me when you can.*

I read it twice.

Then I saved the number and called her back immediately.

She answered on the first ring, as if she had been holding the phone.

"Thank you for calling," she said.

"I wasn't sure you would."

"What conversation?" I asked.

"A woman came into the office on Friday.

She said she was your daughter.

She didn't just ask about property transfer documents." Patricia's voice dropped slightly.

"She asked whether the will could be contested.

She asked what grounds would be needed.

She asked how long a challenge typically takes."

My hand tightened around the phone.

"She was researching how to fight the will."

"Yes.

And she brought someone with her.

A man.

He didn't speak, but he was taking notes the entire time."

"What did he look like?"

"Tall.

Dark jacket.

He had a leather notebook — the kind attorneys carry."

Greg didn't own a leather notebook.

Greg barely owned a pen.

"Mrs.

Hartley," Patricia said carefully, "I don't think the man with your daughter was her husband."