Mark had mocked my old sedan for years. Called it a “retirement coffin.” He never knew its emergency kit held a bolt cutter, legal evidence bags, a flashlight, and the small body camera I used when consulting on domestic violence cases.
I clipped it beneath my scarf.
Then I walked back to the front door and knocked again.
Mark opened it with murder in his eyes.
“You don’t listen.”
“No,” I said softly. “I collect.”
He frowned. “What?”
“Details.”
Vanessa appeared behind him, holding a wineglass. “God, she’s pathetic.”
Mark stepped onto the porch. “Emily signed everything. Do you understand? She’s done with you. Done with this family. Done pretending you matter.”
I let my face crumple just enough.
“She signed what?”
His smile returned. He thought grief had made me foolish.
“The lake house,” he said. “Power of attorney. Medical consent. All legal.”
My heart turned cold.
Medical consent.
From the garage, a heavy thud echoed.
Vanessa flinched.
Mark grabbed my arm. “Leave.”
I looked down at his fingers gripping my coat.
