Did you find out whether the island property is titled only in her name?
Not whether I had inherited property.
Not whether there was real estate.
Island property.
I stepped away from the nightstand.
For several seconds, I could not think clearly.
Then another message appeared beneath it.
Don’t ask her directly yet. She’s already suspicious.
I felt something inside me go still.
This was no longer about Beatrice being overbearing.
Marcus was participating.
He had either discovered something about the cottages or had been looking for it.
And his mother knew.
The bathroom water stopped.
I walked out of the bedroom before Marcus emerged.
In the kitchen, I poured myself water.
My hands shook enough that some spilled onto the counter.
Marcus came downstairs ten minutes later.
He kissed my cheek.
“Sleep okay?”
“Fine.”
He poured coffee.
I looked at him.
“Did you?”
“Like a rock.”
He smiled.
The ease of it hurt.
I went to work.
At nine-fifteen, I called Laura.
“I need to come back.”
“What happened?”
“Marcus’s mother texted him about island property.”
Laura was quiet.
“What exactly did it say?”
I repeated the message.
“Have you ever discussed the Tybee properties near him? Phone calls, paperwork, tax documents?”
I thought.
“Maybe indirectly.”
“Do you receive statements at home?”
“The management company emails most things. Property tax notices sometimes come by mail.”
“Could Marcus have seen one?”
“Yes.”
“Then don’t assume illegal access when ordinary access could explain it.”
That was Laura.
Calm.
Specific.
Useful.
“But the message said they need to know before I change anything.”
“That concerns me more.”
“What do I do?”
“First, protect your information.”
Over the next two days, I did exactly that.
I changed the password on the email account used for the rental properties.
I moved sensitive paper records from my home office into a safe-deposit box.
I confirmed that Marcus had no authority on the management account.
I reviewed account beneficiaries and emergency contacts.
I did not remove him from things simply out of anger.
I made no dramatic transfers.
I wanted decisions, not panic.
Then I called Mr. Coleman, the notary.
He remembered me immediately.
“I was hoping you’d call,” he said.
“Why?”
He hesitated.
“Because I didn’t like the circumstances.”
“Who hired you?”
“Mrs. Whitmore.”
Beatrice.
“What did she tell you?”
“That she and her son had recently married into a family situation involving inherited real estate and that documents needed to be executed promptly.”
My stomach tightened.
“She said her son had recently married?”
“Yes.”
“Did she tell you why it was urgent?”
“She said there were estate-planning deadlines.”
“What deadlines?”
“She didn’t specify.”
“Did you see the documents before coming?”
“Only briefly.”
“Who prepared them?”
He paused again.
“There was an attorney’s office name on some drafts.”
“Whose?”
He gave it to me.
I wrote it down.
I did not recognize the firm.
“Did Marcus speak to you?”
“Once.”
“When?”
“The day before I came.”
My hand stopped.
“What did he say?”
“He confirmed the appointment time and your address.”
That was all I needed.
Marcus had known.
He had not been surprised by his mother’s visit.
He had not simply gone along with it once she arrived.
He had confirmed the notary appointment.
“Thank you,” I said.
“Mrs. Whitmore, I’m sorry.”
“You did your job.”
“I’m glad you said no.”
“So am I.”
That evening, I made spaghetti.
Marcus opened wine.
We ate at the kitchen island where Beatrice had placed the documents.
I watched him sprinkle parmesan over his plate.
For one week, I had wanted him to explain himself without knowing I knew anything.
Now I understood that waiting for spontaneous honesty was becoming its own form of avoidance.
So I asked him.
“How did your mother find the notary?”
He looked up.
“What?”
“The man she brought here.”
“I have no idea.”
“You spoke to him the day before.”
The fork stopped halfway to his mouth.
There it was.
The first crack.
“Who told you that?”
“He did.”
Marcus put down the fork.
“You called him?”
“Yes.”