*After my husband’s funeral, my son drove me to a remote road and said…

His kindness nearly undid me. But I didn’t cry when I buried Richard and I wouldn’t cry now. I had work to do.

And I wasn’t finished yet. Harold Jennings’ office was on the second floor of an old Victorian house on Main Street, just across from the town library. He’d been our lawyer for over thirty years.

Harold was the kind of man who wore sweater vests without irony, and still believed in handshakes. His secretary, Helen, gasped softly when she saw me. Mrs. Whitmore, Mr. Jennings is expecting you.

Would you like a glass of water? Coffee? I’m fine, thank you, I said. Harold met me at the door to his office. He hadn’t aged much since Richard’s last visit, just a bit more stooped, perhaps but his eyes were sharp, alert.

Naomi, he said, not leading me to the desk, but instead to a pair of leather chairs beside the window. He sat across from me, his expression serious. Tell me everything.

So I did. I told him about the funeral. The fake will.

The boardroom-like discussion in our kitchen. The drive. The roadside abandonment.

Every detail. He didn’t interrupt, he just listened, occasionally nodding, his face growing darker by the minute. When I finished I reached into my purse and removed the fireproof box.

From it, I pulled the original deed to the 20 acres the land Richard and I had quietly set aside decades ago, in my name. Harold examined the document with a reverent sort of silence. This, this is gold Naomi.

This isn’t just land. This is leverage. With the water rights and the zoning, the developer can’t touch anything without this.

I know. He leaned back, tapping the edge of the deed thoughtfully. The will Darren submitted it’s a forgery.

I had my suspicions when I saw the signature. It was too clean. Too smooth for a man under hospice care.

I knew it wasn’t Richard’s. We’ll challenge it, Harold said, but that takes time. Meanwhile we use this.

He held up the deed. You still have legal ownership of the most critical piece of the land. They can’t move forward with the sale without your consent.

I want my home back, I said quietly, and I want them to understand what they’ve done. Harold nodded. Then we’ll make them understand.

First, I’ll draft a letter to the developer. They need to be made aware that the property is not what they were promised. Will they back out? If they’re smart, they will.

Developers don’t like lawsuits, and they certainly don’t like incomplete land rights. He stood suddenly purposeful. I also know a judge in district court.

We can get a motion filed to freeze the sale until the matter is resolved. I looked out the window, across the street where a young couple was walking hand in hand, unaware of the quiet storm beginning in this small office. I don’t want revenge, Harold, I said, more to myself than to him.

I want truth. And peace. You’ll have both, he promised, starting now…