“My attorney?”
I nodded.
“You hired a lawyer?”
“For months.”
Mark finally put his phone away.
“What the hell is going on?”
Claire glanced toward the broken sailboat.
Then the spilled soda.
Then the children.
Her expression tightened.
“I think,” she said carefully, “we should give Mr. Mercer a moment to explain.”
My mother stood.
“Daryl, this is ridiculous.”
I looked at her.
“Is it?”
“You can’t just throw your sister out.”
“I can.”
She shook her head.
“This is a family home.”
“No,” I said. “It isn’t.”
My father set his beer down.
“Watch your tone.”
I almost smiled.
That was always his favorite sentence.
Not Are you okay?
Not What happened?
Not Why are the children crying?
Watch your tone.
As though disrespecting an adult was worse than watching a ten-year-old’s face collapse around a broken toy.
I crouched beside Eli.
He was still holding the mast.
“Buddy.”
He looked up.
“Are we leaving?”
I swallowed.
“No.”
His eyes moved toward Jenna.
“Are they?”
I looked at my son for a long moment.
“Yes.”
His shoulders dropped.
Not in celebration.
Relief.
That hurt more than anything.
Zoe came running over and wrapped both arms around my waist.
“Do we still get the porch?”
I put my hand on her hair.
“Yes.”
“And the stars?”
“Yes.”
“And can Eli fix his boat?”
I looked at the broken mast.
“We’re going to try.”
Behind me, Jenna slammed her glass onto the counter.
“You cannot sell this house because you’re angry.”
“I’m not selling it because I’m angry.”
“Then why?”
“Because I finally realized what it is.”
She stared at me.
“What?”
“A place where my children are supposed to feel safe.”
I pointed toward the front door.
“And they don’t.”
Nobody answered.
Claire cleared her throat.
“The buyers are waiting outside.”
Jenna’s face went pale.
“You already have buyers?”
“Three.”
“When did you list it?”
“Yesterday.”
Her eyes widened.
“You listed it yesterday?”
“No.”
I paused.
“Yesterday was when the listing went public.”
Mark stepped forward.
“When did you decide?”
I looked at him.
“Two weeks ago.”
His expression changed.
Two weeks.
That was the morning Jenna had called me and said she was bringing the twins for “a few days.”
Two weeks ago was also the day she had asked whether she could have a copy of the property deed.
She had claimed she wanted to insure the cottage properly.
I had believed her.
That was my mistake.
Jenna crossed her arms.
“You’ve been planning this while we were here?”
“No.”
I looked directly at her.
“I was planning it before you came.”
Silence.
Her eyes narrowed.
“Why?”
“Because I found something.”
Mark stopped moving.
My mother noticed.
“What did you find?”
I didn’t answer.
That was deliberate.
The realtor looked at me.
I gave her a small nod.
She opened the folder.
“Before we begin the showing, Mr. Mercer asked me to confirm something.”
Jenna laughed nervously.
“Confirm what?”
Claire removed a document.
“The property records show that Mr. Mercer is the sole legal owner of the cottage.”
My father scoffed.
“Everybody knows that.”
Claire looked at him.
“Apparently not everybody.”
She pulled out another sheet.
“There is also no transfer of ownership, no trust interest, no family-use agreement, and no surviving claim from any other party.”
Jenna’s face tightened.
“Why are you telling us this?”
“Because,” Claire said, “Mr. Mercer asked me to make it clear that nobody has permission to represent themselves as an owner, tenant, manager, or authorized occupant.”
Mark stared at me.
“Are you threatening us?”
“No.”
I looked around the room.
“I’m correcting a misunderstanding.”
My mother stepped closer.
“You’re humiliating your sister.”
I nodded toward Eli.
“She did that first.”
My mother looked at him.
For the first time all afternoon, she seemed to notice his face.
His eyes were red.
His fingers had little splinters from the broken mast.
He was trying not to cry.
She looked away.
I picked up the pieces of the sailboat.
“Eli, take these upstairs.”
He hesitated.
“Which room?”
I pointed toward the guest room.
“The one you were sleeping in.”
Jenna immediately stepped forward.
“No.”
I turned.
“No?”
“The twins are using that room.”
“They were.”
“They still are.”
“Not anymore.”
Her voice rose.
“You can’t do this!”
I walked to the keypad beside the door.
Jenna watched me enter the code.
The lock clicked.
I looked at her.
“This is the new code.”
She stared.
“You changed it?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Yesterday.”
Her face drained.
She reached into her purse.
Pulled out her phone.
She tapped the screen.
Then again.
Her mouth opened slightly.
“Why doesn’t my code work?”
I didn’t answer.
She looked at me.
“You changed it before the realtor came.”
“Yes.”
“Before you even told us you were selling.”
“Yes.”
“Daryl…”
Her voice became quieter.
Almost pleading.
“What did you find?”
There it was.
Not anger.
Fear.
I noticed it immediately.
And suddenly, the spilled soda, the broken boat, the wine, the guest room—all of it seemed smaller.
Because Jenna wasn’t afraid of losing the beach house.
She was afraid of something else.
Something I had discovered.
I turned toward Claire.
“Show them the second document.”
Claire hesitated.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
She opened the folder again.
This time, she removed a photocopy of an email.
Jenna recognized it before Claire even said a word.
Her face went completely still.
My father frowned.
“What is that?”
I took the paper.
“It’s an email sent from my sister’s account.”
Jenna whispered, “Daryl.”
I continued.
“To a real-estate investor.”
Mark stepped forward.
“What investor?”
I looked at him.
“His name is Daniel Voss.”
The color disappeared from Mark’s face.
My mother noticed.
“Mark?”
He didn’t respond.
Jenna grabbed the paper from my hand.
Her eyes raced over the page.
Then she looked at me.
“You went through my email?”
“No.”
She stared.
“Then how did you get this?”
I said nothing.
That silence was enough.
Jenna’s fingers began trembling.
My father moved toward her.
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