I killed the headlights and just sat there for a second watching shadows move behind the cottage windows.
Nobody should’ve been there.
The sale hadn’t even closed yet.
Rain was pounding the roof of my car while my heart slammed so hard I could feel it in my throat. I grabbed the envelope and walked up anyway.
The front door was unlocked.
Inside, muddy boots tracked across the hardwood floors my father installed himself thirty years ago. Two men were measuring walls with laser tools while another guy stood in the kitchen talking on speakerphone about demolition costs.
Demolition.
Like my family’s home was already gone.
One of the men looked up and frowned. “Can we help you?”
I said, “Yeah. You can get the hell out of my house.”
That got quiet fast.
Then Sarah walked out of the hallway holding a folder against her chest like she owned the place already. She looked irritated more than shocked.
“You weren’t supposed to find out until next week,” she said.
I honestly think that sentence broke something in me.
Not guilt. Not apology. Just annoyance that her timing got ruined.
I held up the fake deed and told everyone in the room Leo signed it while drugged after a heart attack. One of the contractors immediately stepped back like he didn’t want any part of it anymore.
But Sarah doubled down.
She claimed Leo knew exactly what he signed and accused me of trying to back out because developers recently increased their offer. Then she pulled out her phone and said if I didn’t leave, she’d call the police for trespassing.
In my own cottage.
That’s when another voice came from the doorway behind me.
“Go ahead and call them.”
We all turned.
Leo was standing there in the rain wearing hospital sweatpants and gripping the doorframe because he could barely stay upright.
He should not have been out of bed.
But he looked directly at Sarah and said, clear as day:
“Tell them how you forged the second signature too.”