PART 2
Molly arrived sixteen minutes later, wearing a gray wool coat thrown over pajamas, her hair hastily tied up in a messy knot that only meant one thing—she had left home in a rush.
The moment she saw me standing under the stone archway, Ivy cradled against my chest beneath the weak cover of the porch, her expression shifted instantly. First came anger. Then fear. And then something quieter, heavier.
“Oh, Tess,” she whispered.
I tried to return her smile, but it broke before it could form. “I didn’t know where else to stand.”
Without a word, Molly climbed the steps, took my overnight bag from my shoulder, and held it like it was nothing.
“You stand with me,” she said softly. “Always.”
She didn’t say Brent’s name. She didn’t have to.
And for a long moment, we just stood there—two sisters in the rain, facing the house that had once felt like proof that everything I had endured was worth it.
PART 3
For a long moment, Molly’s kitchen stayed completely still.
Jennifer’s words lingered in the air like a struck match in the dark.
According to the original architectural records, that level doesn’t exist.
I looked down at the photograph in my hand. My mother stood before the unfinished foundation of Redwood Crest, younger than I had ever been able to imagine her. She wasn’t the worn-down woman from hospital rooms or the quiet figure balancing bills at a kitchen table. She looked alert. Watchful. Like she was aware of something just beyond the camera’s reach.
The scratched-out figure beside her felt like it pressed into the room itself.
“Tessa?” Jennifer’s voice came through the phone. “Are you still there?”
I forced a breath. “Yes.”
Molly stepped closer and rested a hand on my shoulder. Adrian leaned over the table, studying the photo with an expression I couldn’t quite place.
“What exactly is Brent claiming?” I asked.
“He says there’s a locked lower level with personal financial records,” Jennifer replied. “His lawyer argues that denying access could harm his business interests.”
Molly let out a short, sharp laugh with no humor in it. “His business interests? He couldn’t even figure out laundry detergent.”
Jennifer continued, “The timing doesn’t add up. He submitted the objection this morning, then separately requested entry to an area that isn’t listed in the current property records. I’ve already denied any informal access.”
“Good.”
“But he may still try to force his way in.”
The atmosphere in the room tightened around me.
My first impulse was immediate—to get in the car, go back, and confront everything myself. To stand at the mansion with Ivy in my arms and demand every locked space be opened. That surge was sharp and instinctive, but beneath it was something quieter and far more grounded.
I turned toward my daughter sleeping in the bassinet near the window. Her lips moved faintly in sleep, as if she were dreaming of warmth and safety. She had no awareness that adults were already shaping her future without her.
I lowered my voice. “What can we do legally?”
Jennifer answered without hesitation. “I can file for a temporary protective order over the property and its contents. I can also have a locksmith and licensed security team meet us there tomorrow morning with full authorization. No confrontation tonight. No unsupervised access. No emotional decisions.”
My eyes drifted back to my mother’s letter.
Before you decide what to sell, discover what was hidden beneath the place you call home.
“I want Nora there,” I said. “And Elliot. If this affects the sale, everyone involved needs to see that the house may not match what the records show.”
For a moment, Molly’s kitchen didn’t move at all.
Jennifer’s words hung in the air like a match struck in the dark.
According to the original architectural records, that level doesn’t exist.
I stared down at the photograph in my hand. My mother stood in front of the unfinished foundation of Redwood Crest, younger than I had ever imagined her. Not exhausted. Not fragile. Alert. Focused. As if she were watching for something just outside the frame.
The scratched-out figure beside her felt like it was still pressing into the room.
“Tessa?” Jennifer’s voice came through the phone. “Are you still there?”
“Yes,” I said, forcing air into my lungs.
Molly stepped closer and rested a hand on my shoulder. Adrian leaned in, studying the photo with an expression I couldn’t quite read.
“What exactly is Brent claiming?” I asked.
“He says there’s a locked lower level containing personal financial documents,” Jennifer replied. “His attorney is arguing that denying access could harm his business interests.”
Molly gave a short, humorless laugh. “Business interests? He couldn’t even tell you how to use a washing machine properly.”
