Maybe I was teaching him.

At 4:13 in the morning, while Ivy slept against my shoulder, an email arrived from an address I didn’t recognize.

There was no subject line.

Only one sentence.

Do not sell Redwood Crest until you know what Diane kept in the west attic.

I read it three times before my breathing changed.

Molly found me in the kitchen twenty minutes later, standing barefoot by the sink, Ivy asleep in the crook of my arm and the phone glowing on the counter.

I showed her the email.

She read it once. Then again.

“What west attic?” she asked.

“The old storage room above the library.”

“I thought that was empty.”

“So did I.”

“Who sent this?”

“I don’t know.”

Molly zoomed in on the sender’s address. It was a string of initials and numbers, nothing recognizable.

“Could be a prank,” she said.

“Could be Brent.”

“Would Brent warn you not to sell?”

We both knew that was true.

Brent would demand. Accuse. Pressure.

He would not warn.

Molly placed the phone down carefully. “Did Diane have access to that attic?”

“Everyone did, technically. It’s off the back staircase. But I barely used it.”

“What was stored there?”

“Holiday decorations, old furniture, boxes from before the renovation.” I paused. “Diane used to disappear up there sometimes.”

Molly looked at me sharply.

“I thought she was looking for serving platters or linens. She always complained I didn’t organize things logically.”

The email sat between us like a small locked door.

By nine, Jennifer had it.

Her response came within minutes.

Do not go to the house without arranging proper access and a witness. I’ll contact Elliot and a locksmith. We should also preserve the email with headers.

I called her immediately.

“You think it matters.”

“I think anonymous messages are often nonsense,” Jennifer said. “But I also think Diane has behaved as though she has a stake in that house beyond sentiment.”

“What does that mean?”

“I don’t know yet.”

There it was again. Honesty without comfort.

By late morning, Jennifer had arranged for a licensed locksmith and a property manager named Sandra to meet us at Redwood Crest. Molly insisted on driving. Aaron stayed home with the boys and prepared bottles in case Ivy needed one, though I couldn’t bring myself to leave her behind.

“I’m bringing her,” I said.

Molly didn’t argue.

The road to Redwood Crest climbed through wet pines and stone retaining walls. Fog clung low to the mountains, softening the edges of the world. As we approached the property, my hands began to sweat.

It was absurd, in a way.

The house was mine.

The gate, the driveway, the rooflines appearing through the trees—mine.

Yet my body reacted like I was trespassing.

The locksmith, a quiet man named Paul, arrived in a white van. Sandra, the property manager, was already waiting with a clipboard and a navy raincoat. She greeted me with professional warmth, then glanced at Ivy with a tenderness that flickered across her face before she returned to business.

“We’ll document entry,” she said. “I’ll take photographs of the keypad and any changed locks.”

Jennifer joined by video call, her face appearing on Molly’s phone.

“Everyone ready?” she asked.

Paul examined the keypad. “Code was changed recently. System log may show when, depending on access permissions.”

“Can you get us in?” Jennifer asked.

It took him less than six minutes.

The door opened with a soft click.

No alarm sounded.

I stood there, unable to move.

The foyer smelled the same: lemon polish, cedar, faint lavender from the diffuser Diane had insisted was better than the vanilla one I liked. My shoes were still by the side bench. Ivy’s car seat base sat near the hall closet. A vase of white roses from Brent’s office remained on the entry table, petals beginning to brown at the edges.

Nimic nu era rupt.

Nimic nu părea greșit.

Asta era ceea ce făcea să se simtă atât de ciudat.

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