I smiled into the phone, listening to the alliances already fracturing.
“Listen carefully,” I said. “I’m giving you one chance to walk away with something. Withdraw your fraudulent will. Sign the business and house back to me. In return, I’ll give you each a one-time payment of fifty thousand dollars. After that, we’re done.”
Brandon laughed, an ugly sound.
“You’re delusional. You have nothing. The will is legal.”
“The will is a forgery,” Vincent interjected, leaning toward the speakerphone on his desk. “As the lawyer who drafted Nicholas Canton’s actual will, I can testify to that.”
Silence stretched across the line.
“You have twenty-four hours,” I said. “After that, the offer expires, and I proceed with fraud charges.”
I hung up before they could respond.
Vincent leaned back in his chair.
“You realize they’ll probably refuse.”
“I’m counting on it,” I said. I stood, gathering my purse. “Now I need to visit the bank in person.”
The next twenty-four hours passed in a blur of paperwork, phone calls, and quiet meetings in back offices throughout Milfield. People who had known me for decades—known us, Nicholas and me—stepped up with information, signatures, and support. Not out of pity, but out of respect, and perhaps a touch of relish at seeing the Canton children, who had abandoned their hometown for shinier places, get their comeuppance.
By evening, I’d moved into a small apartment above Lucille’s Bakery. The owner, Lucille Brennan, had been my friend since our children started kindergarten together.
“Stay as long as you need,” she said, pressing the key into my palm. “That boy of yours never did right by this town. Or by you and Nicholas.”
I slept surprisingly well that night, lulled by the familiar smell of bread and pastry rising from below.
In the morning, I dressed in clothes Lucille had lent me—a pair of jeans and a sweater that fit well enough—and prepared for war. At precisely 9:00 a.m., when the deed office opened, I filed paperwork asserting my ownership of the original twenty-acre property that included the main house, the barn, and, most critically, the water access any developer would need.
At 10:00 a.m., I met with the agricultural board about conservation easements Nicholas and I had quietly put in place years ago—restrictions that would make development nearly impossible, even if Brandon somehow managed to sell.
At noon, I sat with Sophia in the Milfield Gazette office, providing documentation for a story headlined, “Local Orchard at Center of Inheritance Dispute; Developer Plans Threaten Protected Agricultural Land.”
By 2:00 p.m., my phone was ringing again.
“The offer’s off the table,” I said by way of greeting.
“Mom, you’re making a terrible mistake,” Brandon’s voice had lost its edge of superiority, replaced by something closer to panic. “The developer’s lawyers are threatening to sue if we can’t deliver as promised.”
“That sounds like your problem,” I said.
“Our problem,” Melissa broke in. “Mom, please. I used the advance to pay off some debts. If this falls through, I’ll be ruined.”
“You should have thought of that before leaving me on the side of the road.”
“That was Brandon’s idea,” she cried. “I didn’t know until we were already driving.”
The betrayal between them gave me no satisfaction. Nothing about this gave me satisfaction—only a cold, necessary sense of justice being served.
“The bank statements show you withdrew fifty thousand dollars three days before your father’s funeral, Melissa,” I said, keeping my voice clinical, detached. “Planning your fresh start already, were you?”
