Inside the envelope was a single sheet in my father’s careful hand, and the sight of his writing made my throat close. It began: Corinne, if you are reading this in the garden, then they have already come. He had known. Even dying, he had understood exactly who would arrive in designer heels the moment he was gone. The letter told me not to argue, not to sign anything, and to look beneath the loose stone at the base of the rose bush he had planted for my wedding. My hands trembled as I knelt and worked the flat stone free. Beneath it, wrapped in plastic against the damp, was a second, thicker envelope, and a small brass key I did not recognize.

The thicker envelope held a copy of my father’s will, dated only two months before he passed, and stapled to it was a letter from his attorney. As I read, the ground seemed to steady beneath me for the first time in weeks. My father had left the house, the garden, and the majority of his estate to me alone. Not to Preston, who had never been legally family and had walked away from me years ago. Not divided the way Sabrina had strolled up the path so certain of. And the brass key, the attorney’s note explained, opened a safe deposit box containing the original signed documents, kept somewhere no one could quietly alter them. Then Nadia’s car pulled into the drive, and my sister stepped out already holding her own briefcase, because Nadia was not just family. She was the estate lawyer my father had trusted.