Chapter 4 - Forty-Eight Hours
I called Rachel immediately.
“Peter Lang is at the house.”
There was a brief pause.
“The attorney?”
“He just walked inside.”
“How do you know?”
“Security camera.”
“Screenshot it.”
I did.
Thirty seconds later, another message from Rachel appeared.
Do not go there tonight.
I called her back.
“Why?”
“Because if he’s involved in the deed, I want everything documented before anyone knows we’ve discovered it.”
“What if they file something?”
“They can’t get past the flag without additional verification. And Monday is a federal holiday. The county office is closed.”
I hadn’t even considered that.
Memorial Day.
Whatever Mom and Peter had planned for Tuesday couldn’t happen before the sale closed Monday.
For the first time all weekend, I felt the smallest measure of control return.
“What happens if they refuse to leave tomorrow?”
“Then the sale could be delayed.”
I hated that answer.
“But you can remove unauthorized guests from your own property,” Rachel continued. “Just don’t create a confrontation. Bring witnesses. Have your realtor there. If necessary, call local law enforcement.”
I slept about three hours.
At 5:30 Monday morning, I drove toward Idaho.
The sky over Spokane was pale pink.
By the time I crossed the state line, the mountains had turned green in the early light.
I had driven that road hundreds of times.
Never knowing I was driving toward the lake house for the last time.
Rebecca met me at a coffee shop twenty minutes away from the property.
She looked nervous.
“You still want to do this?”
“Yes.”
“The Mercers are already in town.”
“Good.”
“They understand the situation?”
“They understand guests are leaving this morning.”
“Guests.”
Rebecca raised an eyebrow.
I didn’t elaborate.
Rachel joined us by phone.
The plan was simple.
I would arrive at nine.
Ask everyone to leave.
Rebecca would arrive at 9:30.
The Mercers would come at eleven only after the property was empty.
At 8:58, I turned into the driveway.
Mom was already waiting.
So was Mark.
And Peter Lang.
Peter looked to be in his late fifties, polished, expensive, the kind of man who wore a sport coat on holiday weekends.
Mom crossed her arms.
“What is all this drama?”
I stepped out of my SUV.
“Good morning.”
“Don’t patronize me.”
“I need everyone packed and gone by ten.”
Mark walked toward me.
“This is ridiculous.”
I ignored him.
Peter stepped forward.
“Claire, perhaps we should talk.”
“Have we met?”
“No.”
“Then call me Ms. Bennett.”
Mom rolled her eyes.
“Oh, stop.”
Peter maintained his smile.
“Your mother asked me to help resolve a family property matter.”
“There is no family property matter.”
“There appears to be some disagreement regarding your grandfather’s intentions.”
“My grandfather’s intentions are in his will.”
“Wills don’t always reflect verbal agreements.”
I looked directly at him.
“Did my grandfather make a verbal agreement with you?”
“No.”
“Then I’m not interested.”
His smile weakened.
Mom stepped between us.
“Claire, you’re embarrassing yourself.”
“No. I’m asking you to leave.”
“You can’t kick us out of Dad’s house.”
“It hasn’t been Dad’s house for six years.”
“Legally maybe.”
There it was.
Legally maybe.
Mark finally spoke.
“We’ve invested in this place too.”
I turned toward him.
“How much?”
He hesitated.
“What?”
“How much money have you invested?”
“It isn’t about—”
“I spent sixty-seven thousand dollars. How much did you spend?”
Silence.
Mom’s face reddened.
“You always throw money in everyone’s face.”
“No. I throw facts into conversations where everyone else is using feelings.”
Peter raised his hands.
“Let’s keep this civil.”
I almost laughed.
“You’re standing on private property after helping someone create a deed transferring that property without the owner’s knowledge.”
Everything changed.
Mom’s expression.
Mark’s posture.
Peter’s eyes.
For half a second, no one moved.
Then Peter said, very carefully, “I don’t know what you’re referring to.”
“Yes, you do.”
“Claire,” Mom snapped.
“I have the document.”
Mark looked at Mom.
That reaction interested me.
He hadn’t known I had it.
Peter regained control first.
“If you have concerns about paperwork, perhaps we can discuss them privately.”
“My attorney will discuss them with you.”
Now Peter looked genuinely unsettled.
“Attorney?”
“Yes.”
Mom stared at me.
“You hired a lawyer against your own mother?”
“No. I hired a lawyer because someone forged my signature.”
“I did not forge anything!”
“I didn’t say you did.”
That silenced her.
Interesting again.
Behind us, the lake glittered.
A boat passed in the distance.
It was strange how normal the world looked while my family fell apart on the stone patio.
Then Mom said, “Fine. We’ll leave.”
I hadn’t expected that.
“But this isn’t over.”
“Yes, it is.”
“No, Claire. You’re going to realize eventually that Grandpa never meant for you to own this place alone.”
I thought of his handwritten note.
Maybe she was right about one thing.
Grandpa had known something would happen.
He had warned me.
But why?
At 9:25, Mark started carrying bags toward his truck.
Peter left first.
Mom went upstairs.
I followed from a distance.
She entered the primary bedroom and closed the door.
When she came out, she carried a leather tote bag.
Something rigid inside it pressed against the side.
A folder, maybe.
Or a box.
“What’s in the bag?” I asked.
She stopped.
“My belongings.”
“Anything from the house stays.”
Her expression hardened.
“I know what belongs to me.”
Did she?
At 9:44, Mark’s truck left.
Mom’s SUV followed.
She didn’t look at me.
Rebecca arrived five minutes later.
We walked through the property.
Dirty dishes.
Wet towels.
Empty bottles.
A broken planter.
It looked as though a small storm had moved through.
But it was empty.
At 10:38, I stood alone in Grandpa’s living room.
The fireplace stones were warm from morning sun.
I ran my hand across the mantle.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
Then something fell behind me.
A soft knock.
I turned.
A picture frame had tipped forward on a side table.
Grandpa and me, taken when I was twelve.
I picked it up.
Behind the photograph was a folded piece of paper.
My heart stopped.
I opened it.
Three words.
CHECK THE FLOORBOARD.
No explanation.
No date.
But it was Grandpa’s handwriting.
Before I could search further, Rebecca called from the driveway.
“The buyers are here.”
I tucked the note into my pocket.
Daniel and Elise Mercer were kind.
That almost made it harder.
They loved the fireplace.
Elise loved the kitchen.
Daniel stood on the dock for several minutes and said, “This place feels cared for.”
I nearly cried.
At 12:46, the closing agent confirmed everything had been signed.
At 1:03, the funds transferred.
Just like that, the lake house no longer belonged to me.
Rebecca handed Daniel the keys.
He shook my hand.
“We’ll take good care of it.”
“I know.”
Then his wife approached from the hallway.
“Claire?”
“Yes?”
“Did you mean to leave this upstairs?”
She held an old wooden box.
Dark cedar.
Brass latch.
I had never seen it before.
“No.”
“It was behind a loose panel in the bedroom closet.”
My skin prickled.
She gave it to me.
The box was locked.
On top were carved two initials:
W.B.
Walter Bennett.
Grandpa.
I drove home with the box on the passenger seat.
I should have been thinking about Mom.
The forged deed.
The sale.
Instead, all I could think about was the note behind Grandpa’s photograph.
CHECK THE FLOORBOARD.
I had sold the house before finding whatever he wanted me to find.
And now someone else owned it.
At 3:22, my phone rang.
Daniel Mercer.
I answered immediately.
“Is everything okay?”
There was a strange pause.
“Claire… I think you need to come back.”
My stomach tightened.
“Why?”
“We found something under the floor.”
“What?”
“I don’t know.”
“What does that mean?”
He lowered his voice.
“It means your grandfather apparently built a compartment beneath the upstairs bedroom.”
My hand tightened around the phone.
“What’s inside?”
Another pause.
“Letters.”
“How many?”
“A lot.”
Then he said:
May you like
“And one of them has your mother’s name on it.”
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