He guided me downstairs, unlocked an old steel cabinet, and removed a folder labeled with my address. Inside were property maps, permit copies, and photographs showing strangers entering my basement after dark.
My heartbeat pounded.
“How long?”
“Six months.”
I stared at him, unable to speak.
He took my hand, his expression filled with quiet sympathy.
“At midnight, you will see and understand everything.”
Every instinct urged me to run across the orchard, confront Daniel, and demand the truth. Instead, I reminded myself of something everyone else had forgotten. Before I married him, I had spent twelve years investigating financial fraud for the state attorney general.
I settled beside the dark attic window, opened my laptop, and began recording everything.
Daniel believed grief had made me vulnerable. Vanessa believed kindness meant I was easy to deceive. Neither of them knew I had maintained separate financial accounts, duplicated every property document, and secretly installed a camera inside my office after noticing the first drawer had been disturbed.
Fear had led me to that cottage.
Training was what kept me from moving.
