My stomach sank. She smiled like she’d already won.
But when she opened it, her expression shifted.
Inside wasn’t money. Not gold, not cash, not jewelry.
Just a thick stack of papers sealed in plastic, an old revolver, a faded photograph, and a yellow envelope with one name written across the front in block letters.
MARA.
Mom made a strangled sound.
Rachel looked between the envelope and Mom. “Why is Grandma’s name on this?”
The room fell silent.
My grandmother, Mara Carter, had died when I was eleven. Hearing her name in this house—the one everyone still called the Carter place—made the air feel thinner. Mom used to say Mara was cruel, unstable, impossible to love. We were never allowed to ask questions.
Brent reached for the envelope, but I got there first. “Don’t touch me.”
For once, he stopped.
My hands trembled as I tore it open. Inside was a brittle letter and a folded document stamped by the county recorder’s office. I read the first line, and my blood went cold.
If my daughters or their husbands ever come for this property after forcing Leah out, this letter is to be given to her alone.
My mother lunged so fast she knocked the flashlight from my hand. It rolled across the floor, spinning light like a siren.
“Give me that!” she screamed.
Rachel stood slowly, staring at Mom now. “What is this?”
“Nothing,” Mom said. “An old woman’s lies.”
But her voice cracked.
