She answered immediately, as if she'd been sitting with the phone in her hand.

"Mom."

"I got your message," I said.

"I'll tell you everything.

But I need you to answer something first, honestly."

"Okay."

"How much of this was Greg's idea?"

A pause.

Long enough to be its own answer.

"Most of it," she said quietly.

"He found Mercer.

He made the appointment at the attorney's office.

He told me what to say.

He said if we moved in first and established residency, it would complicate any legal removal.

He said the will could be challenged on emotional grounds because Dad was sick before he died."

"Your father wasn't sick when he updated the will, Sarah."

"I know that now.

Greg told me he was.

He said he had proof." Her voice tightened.

"I don't think he had proof.

I think he said what he needed to say to get me to go along with it."

"Why did you go along with it?"

"Because we're in trouble, Mom.

Real trouble.

Not just behind on rent.

Greg lost his job eight months ago.

He hasn't told anyone.

He's been pretending to go to work every morning and coming home at night and I only found out three weeks ago when I found the termination letter in his car." Her voice broke slightly.

"We have nothing.

I was scared.

And he made it sound like the cottage was ours by right."

I closed my eyes for a moment.

"It isn't," I said.

"And I need to tell you why."

I told her about Miriam.

About Richard's estranged sister.

About the falling out over their mother's estate, the thirty years of silence, the two years Richard had spent quietly trying to find her before he ran out of time.

I told her about the will — what it said, what it protected, what it was for.

Sarah didn't speak for a long time after I finished.

"He had a sister," she said finally.

"I never knew."

"Neither did I.

Not until Howard showed me the file."

"And he left her the cottage."

"He left me the choice.

But yes.

That was his wish."

Another silence.

Then: "Does she know about me?

About what I tried to do?"

"No.

And she doesn't need to."

"Mom—" Her voice cracked fully now.

"I'm so sorry.

I knew it was wrong.

I knew it from the moment that truck pulled up and I saw your face.

I just — Greg kept saying we had no other option and I was so tired of being afraid and I let him convince me that you wouldn't really mind, that you had enough, that it was practically ours anyway—"

"Stop," I said.

Not harshly.

Just firmly.

"I need you to hear something."

"What?"

"I'm not angry at you.

I'm angry at the situation.

I'm angry that you were afraid and didn't come to me.

I'm angry that Greg has been lying to both of us for months.

But I am not done with you, Sarah.

I want to be clear about that."

She was crying now.

Quietly.

"What do I do about Greg?"

"That's your decision.

But I'll tell you what I see.

I see a man who used your fear to push you into something you knew was wrong.

I see a man who has been lying about his income for eight months while you both fell further behind.

And I see a man who, when things got hard, pointed at my house instead of at himself."

The line was quiet except for her breathing.

"He's not a bad person," she said.

But it sounded like a habit more than a belief.

"Maybe not.

But he made very bad choices.

And he let you carry the consequences."

"What happens now?"

"Now," I said, "you come over for dinner on Thursday.

Just you.

And we figure out what actually needs to happen — not what Greg decided needed to happen.

We start there."

"Okay," she said.

Very small.

Very tired.

"Okay, Mom."

After we hung up, I went to the window.

The garden was dark and still.

Greg had known about the will long enough to build a plan around it.

He had found Mercer.

He had coached Sarah.

He had sent that text — *she knows about the will* — not as a warning to me but as a pressure tactic, trying to force a reaction before I could get ahead of it.

What he hadn't counted on was that I'd already been two steps ahead.

But there was one thing I still didn't know.

Kelsey Donahue — the temp from the law office — worked for Donahue & Associates.

The same firm as Mercer.

That wasn't a coincidence.

Which meant someone had placed her in Howard's office deliberately.

Months before the moving truck.

Months before any of this began.

I picked up my phone and called Howard.

"The temp," I said when he answered.

"Kelsey Donahue.

How did she come to your office?"

A pause.

"Through a staffing agency.

Standard process."

"Which agency?"

I heard him typing.

Then a long silence.

"Howard," I said.

"The agency," he said slowly, "was registered eighteen months ago.

The listed director is a Gregory Paul Mercer."

I set my hand flat on the counter.

Greg's middle name was Paul.

I had seen it on a Christmas card once, years ago.

*Gregory Paul Mercer* wasn't Daniel Mercer's firm.

It was Greg's.