The café smelled like cinnamon and burnt coffee beans, a combination I’d grown fond of over the years. It was one of those autumn afternoons in rural Vermont when the maple trees outside the windows burned red and orange, and the whole world seemed to slow down just enough to let you breathe. Tourists in fleece vests drifted past the glass with paper cups in their hands, pausing to take photos of leaves like they were rare birds. Inside, mugs clinked, chairs scraped softly, and a low murmur of conversation wrapped the room in a kind of ordinary comfort.

My son, Timothy, and his wife, Diane, sat across from me. Diane’s smile stayed in place the way her lipstick did—precise, controlled, like both were part of the same routine. Timothy looked tired, a little thinner than the last time I’d seen him, and he kept glancing at his phone as if it might save him from whatever she planned to say next.

“Mom, you really should consider selling the farmhouse,” Diane said, stirring her latte with mechanical patience. Her manicured nails clicked against the ceramic cup. “It’s far too much space for one person.”

I returned her smile, polite enough to pass, steady enough not to invite a fight. Over the past year, I’d learned there were battles you didn’t win by raising your voice.

“I’m managing just fine, dear,” I said.

Timothy shifted in his seat and avoided my eyes. At forty-two, he’d inherited his father’s shoulders but not his spine. He always had that look lately, as if he wanted to be a good son and a good husband at the same time and didn’t have the courage to accept he couldn’t be both.

“What Diane means,” he said, “is that we’re worried about you out there alone with all those acres to maintain.”

“Your father and I maintained that farm for thirty-seven years,” I replied, keeping my voice soft. “I think I can handle it for a while longer.”

The table went quiet in that specific way it always did when I mentioned Mark—my husband, Timothy’s father, gone for nearly a year now. Or at least, gone on paper. His car had been found submerged in Eagle Lake last November, hauled from dark water with the driver’s door open and no body inside. The police declared it an accident after three weeks of searching. The current was strong, they said. Bodies didn’t always surface. I’d stood at Oak Hill Cemetery and watched them lower an empty coffin because the town needed closure, because people needed an ending they could hold in their hands.

I’d accepted the ceremony. I’d never accepted the certainty.

“We should get the check,” Diane announced, standing abruptly. She always stood when the conversation went somewhere she didn’t like. “Timothy, come help me at the counter.”

I watched them walk away, heads bent together in a whispered conference. They’d been doing that a lot lately—talking about me as if I wasn’t sitting three feet away, as if widowhood turned you into a piece of furniture that could be discussed and moved.

I reached for my purse out of habit, ready to insist, ready to pay, ready to prove I wasn’t helpless.

That was when I noticed her.

She appeared beside my table so suddenly I startled, knocking my water glass with my elbow. A few drops splashed onto the wood. The woman didn’t flinch. She was perhaps fifty, with steel-gray hair pulled into a severe bun and eyes that seemed to look straight through me, past my cardigan and careful smile and into the place where grief kept its sharpest edges.

She wore a dark coat despite the warmth of the café, as if she’d stepped in from weather nobody else could feel. She carried nothing except a small blue box, about the size of a hardcover book.

“Mrs. Whitmore,” she said.

It wasn’t a question. It was a fact.

“Yes,” I managed. My heart began to pound for reasons I couldn’t name.

She placed the blue box on the table between us with deliberate care. Her fingers trembled slightly, just enough to make my stomach tighten.

“You’ll need this tonight,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry.”

“What?” I leaned forward. “I don’t understand.”

“Eleven fifteen,” she whispered, and the urgency in her voice felt sharper than her words. “Answer it when it rings. And Mrs. Whitmore—trust no one.”

I started to stand. “Who are you? How do you know my name?”

But she was already turning away. She moved fast, slipping between tables, blending into the crowd near the counter, then out the door into the street where tourists and locals flowed together like a river. By the time I took two steps, she was gone, swallowed by the afternoon like she’d never existed.

The blue box sat on the table, harmless-looking and suddenly heavy with threat.

I glanced toward the counter. Timothy and Diane were still there. Diane was pointing at something on her phone while the cashier rang them up. Neither of them looked in my direction. Neither of them noticed the exchange. Or, a colder thought whispered, maybe they noticed and chose not to.

My hand moved before my mind caught up. I snatched the box and shoved it deep into my purse just as Timothy and Diane turned back.

“Ready to go, Mom?” Timothy asked.

“Yes,” I said, forcing my voice steady. “Yes. Let’s go.”

The drive back to the farmhouse blurred. The back roads were lined with trees burning themselves out in red and gold, and the sky had that pale, clean Vermont blue that always made the world look honest even when it wasn’t. Diane talked about property values and “practical options.” Timothy murmured agreement, the way people do when they want to keep the peace.

I nodded at the right moments, but the box in my bag felt like it was burning through the leather.

Who was that woman? How did she know my name? And what could I possibly need tonight?

They dropped me off at the end of my long gravel driveway, declining my half-hearted invitation for coffee. Diane said she had an early morning. Timothy said he’d call me soon. Their SUV disappeared down the road, red tail lights fading into dusk.

The farmhouse stood there waiting, two stories of white clapboard and green shutters that Mark and I had painted together five summers ago. The barn loomed to the left, its red paint sun-faded, and beyond that stretched forty acres of fields and woodland that had belonged to the Whitmores for three generations.

I used to look at it and feel pride.

Now it felt like a place that remembered too much.

Inside, I locked the door—something I’d never used to do when Mark was here—and went straight to the kitchen. I set the blue box on the oak table with a soft thud and stared at it until my eyes watered, not from tears but from the strain of holding fear at bay.

Finally, I opened it.

The lid came off easily. Inside, nestled in white tissue paper, was a cell phone.

Not just any phone.

Mark’s phone.

I recognized it instantly. The scratched case with the faded Dartmouth sticker. The crack in the corner from when he dropped it fixing the barn roof two years ago. The scuffed edge where his wedding ring used to tap it when he was thinking.

The police had told me they never found his phone. It must have gone into the lake with him, they said, lost along with his body.

But here it was.

In my kitchen.

Delivered by a stranger who knew my name.

My hands went numb as I lifted it out. The screen was dark. I pressed the power button, half expecting nothing.

It powered on.

The screen glowed to life with a full battery and a single bar of signal. The wallpaper was the same photo from last year—Mark and me at our fortieth anniversary party, laughing like the future was something you could count on.

My vision blurred. I blinked hard, but the image stayed.

This wasn’t possible.

I checked the call log. Empty. Messages. Empty. Everything wiped clean except that one photo, preserved like a ghost trapped behind glass.

I looked at the clock over the stove.

6:47 p.m.

Eleven fifteen, the woman had said. Answer it when it rings.

Four and a half hours.

Four and a half hours to sit in my own kitchen with my dead husband’s phone and wonder if grief had finally broken something inside me.

I made tea—chamomile, the kind Mark used to call hot plant water. I didn’t drink it. I just held the mug and watched steam curl upward while the phone sat on the table like an unexploded device.

At 7:30, I tried calling Timothy. It rang six times and went to voicemail. I didn’t leave a message. What could I say that wouldn’t make me sound like the fragile widow everyone already assumed I was?

At 8:15, I walked through the house and checked the locks. The behavior felt foolish until I heard the woman’s voice again in my head.

Trust no one.

At 9:00, I pulled out the case files from Mark’s disappearance. I’d read them so many times I could recite them. Accident reconstruction. Witness statements. Dive team logs. Search patterns. Everything pointing to a tragic accident: wet road, sharp curve, a moment of misfortune.

But Mark drove that road like he’d built it himself. He knew every curve, every pothole. He was careful to the point of irritation. The kind of man who slowed down when someone tailgated him, not out of fear but out of stubborn principle.

At 10:30, I started pacing. At 11:00, I sat down and forced my breathing into something resembling calm. The clock ticked toward 11:15 with agonizing slowness, each minute stretching too long.

At 11:14, I watched the second hand sweep around the clock face.

At 11:15 exactly, the phone rang.

The sound cut through my kitchen like a blade. Mark’s old ringtone—Springsteen—“Born to Run.” Hearing it in my empty house made my knees wobble.

It rang again. Unknown Caller glowed on the screen.

My hand hovered, shaking. By the third ring, I answered.

“Hello,” I whispered.

Silence. Not dead air—breathing. Soft. Measured. Like someone holding themselves still.

“Hello?” I said again, louder. “Who is this?”

More silence, then a voice—low, distorted, as if forced through an electronic filter. And still, unmistakably familiar.

“Christina.”

My stomach clenched.

“Don’t trust Timothy,” the voice said. “Don’t trust Diane. Don’t trust the police. Your life is in danger.”

The line went dead.

I sat frozen, the phone pressed to my ear as if I could pull the caller back through it by force. That distorted voice had sounded exactly like my husband.

Mark Whitmore, gone nearly a year, commemorated in an empty grave.

My husband—or someone who sounded like him—had called me and warned me I was in danger.

I didn’t sleep. I sat at the kitchen table until dawn broke over the eastern fields, pale light spreading across frost. The phone stayed in front of me like evidence I didn’t know how to interpret.

Don’t trust Timothy. Don’t trust Diane. Don’t trust the police.

By 6:00 a.m., I’d made a decision.

I couldn’t go to the authorities. The warning had been explicit. I couldn’t confide in Timothy, not when the voice had named him. Which meant I was alone.

But I wasn’t helpless.

Mark and I had run this farm together for nearly four decades. I’d balanced books, negotiated contracts, dealt with lawyers and bankers and inspectors. I knew how to ask questions, how to dig for answers. I just had to do it carefully, like a woman stepping across ice she can’t see.

In the morning light, I examined the phone more thoroughly. The battery still showed 100%, as if it had been charged yesterday. The number in the settings was still Mark’s old number, the one we’d disconnected after he was declared gone.

Yet it had rung.

I checked the call log again.

Empty.

As if the call never happened.

But it had. I knew it had.

I was searching through the photo gallery when I heard gravel crunch in the driveway.

My heart jumped into my throat. I shoved Mark’s phone into my cardigan pocket and went to the window.

Timothy’s SUV.

It was 8:15, and he was here unannounced.

I forced my face into calm and opened the door.

Timothy climbed out alone, carrying a cardboard tray with two coffees. His smile was bright in a way that didn’t match the early hour.

“Morning, Mom,” he said. “Thought I’d bring you breakfast. Hope you haven’t eaten yet.”

“This is a surprise,” I said lightly. “Diane not with you?”

“She had a yoga class,” he replied, stepping inside. “Besides, I wanted to talk to you. Just us.”

The words landed with a weight I didn’t like.

We sat in the living room. I watched him look around, eyes flicking across furniture, walls, windows, like he was measuring the place for some future that didn’t include me.

“Mom,” he began, “I need to be honest with you. Diane and I are concerned. Really concerned.”

“About what?” I asked.

“About you,” he said quickly. “About everything. You’ve been… different since Dad. Distant. And we think it’s too much being out here alone with all these memories.”

I took a sip of the coffee. It was from the expensive place downtown. Timothy never brought me expensive coffee unless he wanted something.

“I’m managing perfectly well,” I said.

“Are you?” he pressed, leaning forward. “Because we’ve been thinking, and we really believe it would be better if you moved into town. Maybe one of those nice senior living communities. They have independent apartments, activities, people your own age.”

“I’m sixty-four, Timothy,” I said. “Not ninety.”

“I know,” he said, still performing concern. “But this place is a lot of work. And the property taxes alone are eating up your savings. If you sold, you could have real financial security. Live comfortably.”

There it was. The real target.

“The farm isn’t for sale,” I said.

His jaw tightened. “Mom, be reasonable. You can’t keep it running by yourself. The fields are going. The barn needs repairs. Winter’s coming. What are you going to do when the pipes freeze or the furnace breaks down?”

“The same thing your father and I did,” I said. “Fix them.”

“Dad isn’t here anymore,” Timothy snapped, then caught himself. “Sorry. I just mean you need to think practically. This is valuable land. We could get top dollar, especially with developers moving into the area.”

“We,” I repeated slowly.

He looked uncomfortable, just for a second.

“There’s been interest,” he admitted. “A company called Pinnacle Holdings reached out to Diane’s firm last month. They want to acquire land in this county for a residential development.”

“And you’ve been talking to them.”

“Just preliminary conversations,” he said. “But Mom, they’re offering serious money. Enough that you’d never have to worry about finances again.”

I set my coffee down carefully.

“Let me make something clear,” I said. “This farm has been in the Whitmore family for three generations. Your grandfather built this house with his own hands. Your father and I raised you here. I’m not selling it to developers so they can tear it down and build oversized houses on land that has my family’s history in it.”

“You’re being emotional,” he said.

“I’m being loyal,” I answered. “To your father’s memory.”

Something flickered across his face—guilt, irritation, anger, I couldn’t tell.

“Dad’s gone, Mom,” he said. “He’s been gone for almost a year. We can’t keep pretending otherwise.”

Mark’s phone in my pocket felt like a stone.

“If only you knew,” I thought, but I kept my mouth shut.

“I think you should leave,” I said quietly.

Timothy stood. “Fine. But think about what I said. Really think about it. Because Diane and I, we’re not going to stand by and watch you run yourself into the ground trying to maintain this place alone.”

A hint of threat threaded through his concern, and it made my skin prickle.

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“It means we love you,” he said, smiling too tightly, “and we’re going to do what’s best for you whether you like it or not.”

He left. I watched through the window as he sat in his car for a long moment, phone pressed to his ear, before finally driving away.

My hands shook as I pulled Mark’s phone from my pocket.

Don’t trust Timothy.

The voice had said it. And now Timothy had shown up uninvited, pushing a sale, talking to developers through Diane’s law firm, speaking to me like I was a problem to be solved.

I needed information, not fear.

I went to Mark’s office—the room still felt like his, even after a year—and opened the file cabinet where we kept everything important: property deed, insurance, bank statements, Mark’s will.

I spread the documents across the desk and read with fresh eyes.

The will was straightforward. Everything to me, Timothy as the heir after my death. Standard.

Then I pulled out the property deed again and noticed something that made my throat tighten.

A notation about a survey request, dated two months before Mark’s disappearance.

Someone had requested a property survey last September.

I grabbed my laptop and searched through our shared household email. I typed in “survey,” “property,” “Pinnacle.”

Three emails appeared.

A confirmation from Boundary Line Surveyors for an appointment on September 15th.

A receipt, paid in full.

And a third email from an address I didn’t recognize. Subject: Re: Whitmore property. Preliminary assessment.

My fingers trembled as I opened it.

It was from an acquisitions director at Pinnacle Holdings. It thanked Mark for his inquiry regarding a potential sale, referenced survey results, and mentioned a preliminary offer in the range of 2.3 million for the forty acres, pending assessments. It ended by noting they would require “assurances regarding family consent.”

The date on the email was September 28th.

Six weeks before Mark’s car went into Eagle Lake.

My husband had been negotiating to sell the farm without telling me.

I sat back in the chair, the room tilting.

This couldn’t be real. Mark would never. We made decisions together. Always. That was the rule of our marriage, the one promise we never broke.

Unless I didn’t know everything. Unless he had been hiding something to protect me. Or unless there was another truth I wasn’t ready to face.

My phone buzzed. A text from Diane.

Hi, Christina. Just wanted to check in. Timothy mentioned you seemed upset this morning. Everything okay? We’re here if you need anything. xo.

The timing made my stomach twist. Timothy must have told her the moment he left.

I didn’t respond.

Instead, I went back to Mark’s phone and tried to access his email. The app asked for a password.

I tried our anniversary. Our address. Timothy’s birthday.

All wrong.

A knock at the door made me jump so hard my chair scraped the floor.

I shoved both phones into my pocket and went to answer it.

A man stood on my porch in a sport coat over jeans, a badge and leather wallet held up in one hand.

“Mrs. Whitmore,” he said, “I’m Detective Brian Hardwick, Vermont State Police. Do you have a few minutes to talk?”

My throat went dry.

“What’s this about?”

“It’s regarding your husband’s death,” he said. “We’ve received some new information. I need to ask you a few questions. May I come in?”

Every instinct in me wanted to refuse.

Don’t trust the police.

But refusing would draw attention. It would look like I was hiding something.

“Of course,” I heard myself say.

We sat in the living room. Hardwick pulled out a small notebook. His manner was patient, practiced, the kind of kindness that could be genuine or could be a tool.

“A witness has come forward,” he said. “Someone who was in the area the night your husband’s car went into the lake. They claim they saw another vehicle nearby, possibly following Mr. Whitmore’s car.”

My heartbeat thudded in my ears.

“Following him?” I repeated.

“That’s what they’re saying,” Hardwick replied. “We’re trying to verify the account, but it raises questions about the circumstances.”

He watched me carefully.

“Mrs. Whitmore, was your husband having any problems before he died? Financial troubles? Disputes with anyone? Anything unusual in his behavior?”

The email about selling the farm flashed in my mind.

“No,” I lied. The lie felt necessary, like locking a door you aren’t ready to open. “Nothing.”

“And you haven’t noticed anything strange recently?” he asked. “Unusual phone calls? Anyone asking questions about your husband?”

The blue box. The midnight call. The warning.

“No,” I said again. “Nothing like that.”

Hardwick studied me for a long moment. His kind eyes sharpened.

“If your husband’s death wasn’t an accident,” he said, “if someone caused it, you could be in danger.”

The exact phrase, the exact cold shape of it, that the voice on Mark’s phone had used.

Your life is in danger.

“I appreciate your concern,” I said carefully, “but I’ve told you everything I know.”

Hardwick handed me a business card. “If you think of anything, or if anything unusual happens, call me. Day or night.”

After he left, I locked the door and leaned against it, my legs barely steady.

A new witness. Another vehicle. Questions about Mark’s accident.

And the police, the same police who had closed the case with an empty coffin and a shrug, were back in my living room asking if I’d received unusual calls.

My hands shook as I pulled Mark’s phone from my pocket again. This time, I didn’t try to guess passwords.

I ran my fingers along the edges of the phone case and found something I hadn’t noticed before.

A tiny folded piece of paper wedged between the phone and its case.

I pried it out and unfolded it with careful hands.

Four words, in Mark’s handwriting.

The truth is buried.

I stared until the letters blurred.

Buried where? Buried what?

I needed someone I could trust, someone outside Timothy and Diane’s influence, someone with no reason to want my land.

Sarah Brennan, Mark’s sister, lived three hours away in Boston. We’d always been close. She’d stayed after the funeral. She’d held me up when I thought my knees would never stop shaking.

I called her on my regular phone.

“Sarah,” I said, forcing my voice casual, “it’s Christina. Do you have time to visit this week?”

“Of course,” she said immediately. “Is everything all right?”

“I just… I’d like to see you,” I said. “Could you come up for a few days?”

A pause. Then, gentle and sharp at the same time: “Christina, what’s wrong? Don’t tell me nothing. I can hear it.”

“I can’t talk about it on the phone,” I admitted. “Please. Can you come?”

“I’ll leave tomorrow morning,” she said. “Hang tight. Okay?”

“Okay,” I whispered.

After I hung up, the house felt marginally less empty. One ally. One person.

But tomorrow was still too far away to sit and do nothing.

The truth is buried.

I spent the rest of the afternoon searching the house, the attic, the basement, Mark’s workshop, the barn. I checked for loose boards, hollow spaces, hidden compartments. I found nothing but dust and old receipts and the ache of realizing Mark might have been carrying something alone that he didn’t know how to hand me safely.

Evening came. I forced myself to eat soup I couldn’t taste. I stood at the sink washing dishes, staring out at my fields as the last light bled out of the sky.

Mark’s phone rang again.

My hands were slick with soap. I dried them frantically and grabbed it.

Unknown Caller.

I answered before fear could talk me out of it.

“Hello?”

The distorted voice came through, low and urgent.

“Did you find the note?”

“Yes,” I whispered. “What does it mean? Where is it buried?”

A pause.

“Think, Christina,” the voice said. “What happened exactly one year before the incident?”

I tried to force my mind back through seasons. November of the previous year. Two years ago now.

“I don’t know,” I said. “We were just living. Nothing special.”

“Think harder,” the voice insisted. “What changed?”

And then I remembered.

“Mark went to New York,” I said slowly. “A trip. He said it was business.”

“Not business,” the voice replied. “He was meeting with a lawyer. Criminal defense. Robert Castellano.”

My legs went weak. I sank into a chair.

“Why would Mark need a criminal defense lawyer?” I whispered.

“Because he discovered something,” the voice said. “Something that put him in danger. He was trying to figure out what to do.”

“Tell me,” I pleaded. “Please.”

“I can’t,” the voice said. “Not over the phone. But you need to find Castellano. He has files. Documentation. Everything Mark gathered before—”

Static cracked through the line like tearing fabric.

“Before what?” I demanded.

A breath, then the voice again, faint and tight.

“The same people pressuring you to sell,” it said. “The same people who profit if you’re removed.”

The line went dead.

I sat frozen, staring at the phone, my mind spinning around one impossible center: Timothy.

It felt like blasphemy to even think it. And yet every new detail landed in the same place. The pressure. The money. Diane’s smooth certainty. Hardwick’s questions.

I opened my laptop and searched Robert Castellano, criminal defense attorney, New York.

His website came up immediately. Clean. Sharp. The kind of site that promised discretion and damage control for people with secrets that could ruin them.

I called the office number, even though it was late. I didn’t expect anyone to answer.

Someone did.

“Castellano and Associates.”

“My name is Christina Whitmore,” I said. “I need to speak with Mr. Castellano about my husband, Mark Whitmore.”

There was a pause, then guarded politeness. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but Mr. Castellano doesn’t typically discuss client matters with family members without authorization.”

“My husband is gone,” I said. “And I think what he hired Mr. Castellano for is connected to what happened to him. I’m being threatened.”

Another pause, longer this time.

“Hold, please.”

Classical music filled my ear. My fingers dug into the edge of the kitchen table. My whole body felt like it was waiting for something heavy to fall.

A man’s voice came on the line. Deep. Careful.

“Mrs. Whitmore,” he said, “this is Robert Castellano. I was sorry to hear about Mark.”

“He hired you two years ago,” I said. “I need to know why.”

“I’m sure you understand attorney-client privilege extends beyond death,” he replied.

“Yes,” I said, “but I’m not asking for curiosity. I’m asking because I believe I’m in danger.”

Silence on the other end.

Then, “Not over the phone,” Castellano said. “Can you come to New York?”

“When?”

“Tomorrow. Two p.m.” His voice sharpened. “Come alone, Mrs. Whitmore. Don’t tell anyone where you’re going.”

He hung up before I could answer.

I sat staring at the dark laptop screen. New York tomorrow. The same day Sarah was supposed to arrive. But something in me knew I couldn’t wait. Whatever Mark had uncovered, whatever he’d been trying to solve, the answers were in that lawyer’s office.

I was booking a train ticket when I heard a car in the driveway.

My stomach clenched.

I went to the window.

Diane’s car.

Alone.

Diane never came to the farm alone.

I opened the door before she could knock.

“Diane,” I said, forcing calm, “this is unexpected.”

She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. She wore an expensive suit, her hair pulled back tight, as if she’d dressed for a deposition rather than a visit.

“Hi, Christina,” she said. “I hope I’m not intruding. I wanted to talk about this morning.”

“Timothy already said what he needed to say.”

“Did he?” Diane stepped past me into the house without waiting for an invitation, and the casual entitlement of it made my skin crawl. “Because I’m not sure he made our position entirely clear.”

Our position.

Not his.

Ours.

We stood in the living room. Her eyes swept across the space, cataloging it like inventory.

“Timothy told me you were upset when he mentioned selling,” she said. “I understand it’s emotional, but Christina, we have to be realistic.”

“I am being realistic,” I said. “The farm isn’t for sale.”

“Even if keeping it means losing everything else,” she replied softly.

The words hung like a threat.

“What does that mean?” I asked, voice quiet.

Diane sat down on the sofa and crossed her legs with deliberate grace. “It means property taxes, utilities, insurance, repairs. Your income is limited.”

“I’m managing,” I said.

“Are you?” Her tone was smooth. “Because I’ve been reviewing your financial situation.”

My blood went cold.

“You’ve been what?”

“As your daughter-in-law,” she said, “as someone who cares about your well-being, I asked Timothy for access to the household accounts. Just to make sure everything was in order.”

She pulled out her phone and scrolled.

“You’ve been dipping into savings at an unsustainable rate. At this pace, you’ll be broke in eighteen months.”

My face burned. “You had no right.”

“I have every right,” she said coolly. “Timothy is your heir. He needs to understand what he’ll be inheriting. And frankly, what we found was concerning.”

I held still. “What did you find?”

“Large cash withdrawals,” she said. “Payments to entities we can’t trace. Almost like Mark was hiding money.”

My stomach twisted. Mark’s cash withdrawals, the ones I’d just seen, suddenly looked like a rope tightening around me.

“We’re not accusing Mark of anything improper,” Diane added, voice turning sympathetic in a way that felt practiced, “but these irregularities raise questions. Questions that might interest the IRS.”

There it was. The blade under the velvet.

“Get out,” I said, and my voice surprised me with its steadiness. “Get out of my house.”

Diane stood and smoothed her skirt. “I’m trying to help you.”

“No,” I said. “You’re trying to corner me.”

“If you’d just be reasonable,” she continued, ignoring my words, “if you’d agree to sell, all these problems go away. You’d be secure. We could handle any complications from Mark’s financial decisions, and you could live somewhere more appropriate for someone your age.”

“Someone my age,” I repeated.

“Safe,” Diane said, and this time the word didn’t sound kind.

Her voice hardened, just slightly. “This is a big property, Christina. Lots of isolated areas. The barn. The woods. That old well behind the north field. Accidents happen on farms. Especially to older people living alone.”

A cold wave rolled through me.

“Are you threatening me?” I asked.

“Of course not,” Diane said lightly. “I’m worried about you.”

She walked to the door, then paused with her hand on the knob.

“Oh,” she said, like she’d almost forgotten something. “We’ve been in contact with an elder care attorney. Did you know in Vermont, family members can petition for guardianship if they believe a loved one is no longer capable of making sound decisions? It’s a legal protection. To keep older people from being taken advantage of.”

My mouth went dry.

“You wouldn’t.”

“We would if we had to,” Diane said. “If we felt you were putting yourself at risk. Making irrational choices. Refusing help.”

Her smile returned, empty and precise.

“Think about it, Christina,” she said. “Think about what’s best for everyone. We’ll give you a week to decide about the sale. After that, we’ll have to explore other options.”

She left, heels clicking across my porch.

I locked the door behind her with shaking hands and stood there, pressed to the wood, trying to breathe.

Guardianship.

They were going to take my rights, my home, my autonomy, and call it care.

I pulled Mark’s phone from my pocket and stared at it.

The cash withdrawals. The secrecy. The phone appearing in a blue box. The warning call. Diane’s threats. Hardwick’s questions.

Mark hadn’t been hiding money for himself.

He’d been paying for something.

Paying someone.

Paying for protection.

I went upstairs and began packing a bag with hands that wouldn’t stop trembling. Train to New York in the morning. Castellano at two. Answers, finally, whether I wanted them or not.

I was folding clothes into a small suitcase when I heard it.

Footsteps on the porch.

Heavy. Slow. Deliberate.

I moved to the window and looked down.

A figure stood in the shadows near my front door. Dark clothes. Face obscured. They weren’t knocking.

They were waiting.

My first instinct was to grab my phone and call 911. Then the warning tightened around my chest again.

Don’t trust the police.

The figure stepped into the pale light from the porch lamp. I still couldn’t see the face clearly, but I could see the posture, the way the weight settled on one leg, the hands tucked into pockets.

It was exactly how Mark used to stand.

The figure raised one hand in a small wave, then pointed toward the barn and walked away into the darkness.

My breath caught. My heart felt too big for my ribs.

That couldn’t be Mark.

Mark was gone.

Mark was an empty coffin and paperwork and a year of learning how to drink coffee alone.

Mark’s phone buzzed in my pocket.

A text message, from no number.

The barn. Midnight. Come alone. Trust no one else.

I looked at the clock.

11:47 p.m.

Thirteen minutes.