I turned the brass key and lifted the lid. Inside lay a thick folder, a small voice recorder, and a second envelope marked in Eleanor’s hand: “Read this before you call Courtney.” Beneath it was a trust document stamped by a Raleigh law firm and dated two years earlier. One line stopped my breath. The beachfront mansion had never been fully Courtney’s.

Before I could read further, my phone buzzed for the first time since I arrived. It was Courtney, screaming. “Dad, there’s a man here with papers, and he says I can’t sell the house! What did Mom do?” Behind her, Trevor was shouting about a bank. I looked at the folder, then pressed play on the recorder. Eleanor’s voice filled the silent cabin. “Walter, listen carefully, because Trevor is not who he says he is.”