The morning after my husband’s passing, I returned to our home only to discover the locks had been replaced—and his mother settling her belongings into my kitchen. “You’re merely a widow with no claim. This house is ours now!” she scoffed with a smirk. I met her gaze in silence, then let a faint smile cross my lips—they’d overlooked something crucial…

She wants control, Angela corrected. This isn’t about money, Rachel. It never was.

I stared at the corner of the ceiling, feeling that cold motel air wrap around my ankles. I want to fight her, I said, not just stop her. I want to destroy her.

Angela paused. Then her tone shifted, steel under velvet. Good, but we do it smart.

You don’t speak to her. You don’t respond. You let me build this like a wall, one brick at a time.

We hung up. I stared at the court letter for a long time, then folded it, slid it back into the envelope and tucked it into my suitcase. That afternoon, I received a text message from a number I hadn’t seen in over a year.

James Harding, Ethan’s former business partner. Hey, Rachel. I don’t want to get involved, but… Diana reached out.

She asked about Ethan’s mental state during the last few months. Wanted to know if I had emails, medical stuff, anything about confusion or forgetfulness. I didn’t say anything, but she mentioned that one investor meeting, remember? He came back pretty out of it.

I just wanted to give you a heads up. I stared at the message until the screen went dark. Of course I remembered that day.

Three months before Ethan died. He’d come home from a client meeting pale and shaken. Said he forgot where he parked.

Forgot the name of the guy he’d just met. He blamed it on stress. Insomnia.

Too much caffeine. But Diana, she must have gotten wind of it. She was building a case.

If she could convince the court that Ethan hadn’t been of sound mind, even if it was all circumstantial, she could unravel everything. Undue influence was hard to disprove. Especially if it came with whispers with concerned family and unanswered questions.

That was the moment I remembered something Ethan said, almost offhand, one night after dinner. I have an appointment at St. Michael’s next week, he’d said. Neurology, just to rule stuff out.

Probably nothing. I hadn’t gone with him. He told me not to worry.

I scrambled off the bed, yanked open my suitcase, pulled out the folder of documents and dumped it across the bedspread. I tore through everything, utility bills, mortgage receipts, old birthday cards, even a dentist reminder. Then, tucked inside a pile of unopened mail from three months ago, I found it.

A sealed envelope from St. Michael’s neurology clinic. I opened it with shaking fingers. Dear Mr. Monroe, following your recent cognitive assessment, we are pleased to inform you that your results fall within the normal range.

No signs of early cognitive decline were detected. I read it three times before I finally let out the breath I’d been holding for a week. He had been okay, and now I had proof.

Monday morning, one week since Ethan died. Five days since Diana filed the petition. 72 hours since I found the neurologist’s letter that would change everything…