I could have called him.
Instead, I called my attorney.
Her name is Patricia Doyle, though everyone calls her Pat. She had handled our estate documents before George died and helped me update everything afterward.
“Please tell me you’re not calling because you’re finally putting Theo’s name on the mountain property,” she said when she answered.
Pat knew me well.
“No,” I said. “Quite the opposite.”
I explained what had happened.
She stopped me twice.
“Did you sign any property-management agreement?”
“No.”
“Did you authorize either of them to advertise the cabin?”
“No.”
“Have you given them any ownership interest?”
“No.”
“Do they have access to a key?”
That question made me sit up straighter.
“I don’t know.”
I told her about a lockbox on the back porch.
Years earlier, I’d put a spare cabin key inside it so my neighbor Buddy could get in if a pipe burst or a storm knocked out a window.
I had mentioned it to Theo once.
At the time, it had seemed like an ordinary piece of family information.
Pat was quiet for a moment.
“Before you confront anybody,” she said, “confirm the deed and find out whether that lockbox is still there.”
I called the Haywood County assessor’s office.
The property was still exactly what I knew it to be.
Mine.
Sole ownership.
Then I called Buddy.
His full name was Harold Bennett, no relation to us despite the same last name. He was a retired forest ranger who lived about a mile down the mountain road from my gate.
“Everything all right?” he asked.
“I need you to check something.”
I told him where the lockbox should be.
He didn’t ask questions.
“I’ll ride up there.”
Forty minutes later, he called back.
“It ain’t there.”
I stood from the kitchen table.
“What do you mean?”
“The whole box is gone. Hook’s still on the post, but the lockbox is gone.”
I closed my eyes.
“Anything else?”
“Tool shed’s locked. Windows look fine. Can’t tell much from the tire tracks. Had rain.”
“Thank you, Buddy.”
“You want me to put another lock on something?”
“Not yet.”
There was a pause.
“Somebody causing you trouble?”
I looked again at the reservation screenshot.
“Maybe.”
He grunted softly.
“Well, cabin’s fine. Call if you need me.”
The missing lockbox changed the situation.
A listing could be dismissed as arrogance or wishful thinking.
Removing something from the property because you needed access to a key was planning.
I made myself a sandwich, ate half of it, then put the rest in the refrigerator.
After that, I drove to Theo and Farah’s house.
They lived about forty minutes away in a development where all the homes had slightly different shutters and almost identical mailboxes.
Their SUV was in the driveway.
So was Theo’s sedan.
Farah answered after my second knock.
For just a second, she looked genuinely surprised.
Then her expression rearranged itself.
Farah was good at that.
“What a nice surprise,” she said. “Come in. I just made coffee.”
“I’m not here for coffee.”
Her smile held, but only because she wanted it to.
I walked past her.
Theo was on the couch with a laptop balanced on one knee.
“Mom. Hey.”
Something moved behind his eyes.
Not surprise.
Recognition.
That answered one question.
I sat in the armchair across from him.
Farah came in behind me holding her mug with both hands.
“I received a text this morning,” I said, “from a family who believes they rented my cabin for the first week of August.”
Nobody spoke.