Courtney whispered, “Mom?”
Patricia’s face hardened again.
“Your father was sick.”
“He had a heart attack,” I said.
“He was under stress.”
“What did you do?”
Her eyes flashed.
“Careful.”
Two syllables.
A threat.
Not from a mother.
From someone who had kept secrets so long she believed they belonged to her.
Rebecca said, “Mrs. Anderson, I strongly advise you not to threaten my client.”
Patricia smiled thinly.
“Or what? She’ll buy another building?”
I stood again.
This time, I was not shaking.
“No,” I said. “She’ll open the envelope Dad left for her.”
My mother’s eyes changed.
She knew.
She knew immediately.
Courtney looked confused.
“What envelope?”
I had found it three months earlier, in a box of old documents from my father’s storage unit. It was sealed, marked in his handwriting:
Madeline — when you stop asking permission.
I had not opened it yet.
Part of me had been afraid it would contain disappointment.
Part of me had been afraid it would contain love.
That morning, before coming to Briar Glen, I had finally opened it.
Inside were three pages.
A letter.
A list of file numbers.
And a key.
A key to a safe deposit box at a bank in Charlotte.