“Why?”
“Because he gave me his card.”
“I can’t believe you’re turning this into an investigation.”
“I asked one question.”
“You’re calling strangers about my mother.”
“He wasn’t a stranger when he was sitting in my kitchen.”
Marcus leaned back.
“I confirmed the appointment. That’s all.”
“So you knew she was coming.”
“Yes.”
“You told me you didn’t.”
“I never said I didn’t know.”
I stared at him.
He was technically right.
He had allowed me to assume it.
Sometimes the most careful lies are made from facts people simply never correct.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I knew you’d get nervous.”
“Then why do it?”
“Because Mom thought it would be easier if everything was ready.”
“Ready for what?”
“Estate planning.”
“There were documents transferring inherited assets into a trust where you were co-trustee and primary beneficiary.”
“That is normal for married people.”
“Sometimes.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means normal does not equal automatic.”
He laughed without humor.
“Laura said that?”
I had not told him I saw Laura.
“How do you know I talked to Laura?”
He blinked.
For the first time, Marcus realized he had stepped somewhere dangerous.
“I assumed.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Elaine.”
“How do you know?”
He pushed his chair back.
“This is insane.”
I did not raise my voice.
“How do you know I talked to Laura?”
He stood.
“I know she’s your attorney.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
“I don’t need this.”
“You need to answer me.”
He picked up his wineglass.
Then he set it down again.
Finally he said, “Mom said you probably would.”
That was plausible.
I almost let it pass.
Then I thought about Beatrice’s message.
Island property.
I looked at him.
“How does your mother know about Tybee Island?”
Every bit of color left his face.
That was the answer before he spoke.
“What?”
“The cottages.”
He stared at me.
“What cottages?”
I almost laughed.
“Don’t.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Your mother texted you asking whether the island property was titled only in my name.”
Marcus’s expression hardened.
“You read my phone?”
“It lit up beside me.”
“That’s private.”
I could not help it.
I laughed.
Not because anything was funny.
Because eight days earlier, his mother had brought documents into my kitchen seeking authority over my finances, and now he was lecturing me about privacy.
“You’re right,” I said. “Privacy matters.”
His jaw tightened.
“That doesn’t give you permission to read my messages.”
“I didn’t open your phone.”
“You still read it.”
“Yes.”
“You crossed a line.”
“So did you.”
He looked away.
“Tell me about Tybee.”
Silence.
“Marcus.”
“I saw a tax notice.”
“When?”
“A few months ago.”
“And?”
“And I asked Mom about it.”
“You asked your mother about my property?”
“I was curious.”
“Why didn’t you ask me?”
“Because you were obviously hiding it.”
That landed harder than I expected.
“I told you I had inherited property.”
“You said savings.”
“I said assets.”
“You made it sound modest.”
“It is my business how much detail I share before I’m ready.”
“We were engaged.”
“Yes.”
“We were planning a life.”
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t think I deserved to know you owned six rental properties?”
My chest tightened.
“How do you know there are six?”
He stopped.
I had never said six.
For several seconds, the kitchen was silent except for the refrigerator.
“Marcus.”
He rubbed his forehead.
“I looked it up.”
“How?”
“Public property records.”
The answer was believable.
Deeds are not secret diaries.
Property ownership can often be found through public records.
But the reason mattered.
“When?”
“Before the wedding.”
“How long before?”
“Couple months.”