By the time the lawyer finished reading the will, my mother’s hand was already on my grandmother’s house keys.

Sunlight poured through the stained-glass windows of Gran’s Victorian in Savannah, Georgia, painting the hardwood floors in stripes of blue and gold. I used to lie on those floors as a kid and trace the colors with my fingers. That morning, I watched those same colors slide over my mother’s perfectly manicured fingers as she curled them around the brass key ring like it already belonged to her.

“Natalie, honey, you have to understand,” she said, voice soft and smooth, the way you talk to a nervous client in a real estate office. “This house needs so many repairs. The taxes alone would crush you. We’re just trying to protect you from that burden.”

Protect me.

I stared at her, then at my father, who was suddenly very interested in the pattern on the rug. My brother, Sullivan, leaned against the doorframe with his arms crossed, wearing that impatient half-smile that always meant he’d already chosen a side and it wasn’t mine.

“Come on, Nat,” he said. “You couldn’t afford the property taxes anyway. Be realistic.”

The smell of Gran’s lavender sachets still lingered in the air. Three weeks before, we’d sat together in this same living room, drinking tea while she told me about her childhood in Charleston, about how she’d bought this house when she came to Savannah, about how she knew I was the only one who loved it for more than its market value.

Someday, this will all be yours, darling, she’d said, patting my hand. Unless someone gets clever with papers and smiles.

Now here they were, my family, dividing up her life like a yard sale.

“You can’t do this,” I said. My voice came out thinner than I wanted, shaking around the edges. “Gran left the house to me. It’s in the will. We just heard it.”

“Actually,” my sister Riley cut in, without looking at me, “Mom and Dad have power of attorney. The sale’s already gone through.”

I felt the room tilt.

“What sale?”

Mom smoothed a wrinkle in her designer blouse, the way she always did before dropping news she’d already rehearsed in the mirror. “We found a lovely buyer. Local businessman, very respectable. He offered well above market value. It’s a blessing, really. The papers are signed.”

My fingers tightened around the envelope in my lap—the one the courier had delivered this morning with instructions in Gran’s looping handwriting: Do not open until after the will is read.

“Get out,” I whispered.

Dad finally spoke. “Don’t be dramatic, Natalie. We’re family. We’re just trying to do what’s best.”

“Family doesn’t do this.” My laugh sounded sharp and strange in my own ears. “Family does not sell my inheritance behind my back and then smile at me like they’re doing me a favor. Get out of my grandmother’s house. Now.”

They hesitated as if waiting for me to soften, then began filing toward the door. Mom paused on the threshold, keys still in her hand.

“We’re meeting the buyer tomorrow at ten to hand everything over,” she said. “You should come. It’ll help you make peace with it.”

The door closed behind them, and the house was suddenly too quiet. The old grandfather clock ticked in the hall. Somewhere outside, a dog barked. I sat down hard in Gran’s favorite armchair, the floral one by the window where she used her “reading glasses” that she never actually read with.

Hands trembling, I opened the envelope.

Inside was a single sheet of thick cream paper and a tiny brass key taped to the corner.

My dearest Natalie,

If you’re reading this, they’ve done exactly what I feared they would. But don’t worry. I’ve left you something they don’t know about—something that will help you fight back.

Check behind the loose brick in the garden wall. The one with the little heart carved into it. You used to trace it with your thumb when you were nervous, remember?

The biggest betrayals, my girl, come wrapped in the prettiest packages. Don’t let a pretty package scare you away from the truth.

Love always, Gran.

My heart pounded so loud it drowned out the clock.

I grabbed the key, shoved the letter back into the envelope, and went outside. The February air in coastal Georgia was cool but not cold, the kind of breeze that carried the smell of damp earth and river water. The brick garden wall ran along the back of the property, half-hidden behind climbing roses Gran never let anyone but herself trim.

I found the brick in seconds. I’d run my fingers over that carved heart a thousand times as a kid while Gran told me stories about “people who smiled with their teeth and stole with their hands.”

The brick slid out with a soft scrape.

Behind it, in a narrow hollow, was a bundle wrapped in plastic and tied with twine. My fingers shook as I pulled it out and unwrapped it on the stone bench Gran used as her “thinking spot.”

Legal documents. Copies of her will. A separate addendum dated six months ago. Bank statements. Insurance forms. Photos of paintings I’d always assumed were just prints. And at the very bottom, a business card:

Skyler Martinez, Attorney at Law
Historic District, Savannah, GA.

On the back, in Gran’s looping script: If they turn on you, go to her. I trust her. More importantly, she knows how your mother thinks.

The next morning, the law office of Skyler Martinez smelled like leather, paper, and strong coffee. It looked exactly like what you’d expect from a lawyer in a Southern city: dark wood, built-in bookshelves, framed degrees from Emory and NYU, and a small window with a sliver of oak tree visible outside.

I sat across from Skyler, my pile of documents between us.

“Well,” she said, adjusting her glasses as she skimmed Gran’s addendum. “Your grandmother did not play around.”

“Can they really sell the house without my consent?” I asked. “They said they had power of attorney.”

Skyler’s mouth curved into a slow, satisfied smile that made my spine straighten.

“That,” she said, tapping the page, “is the interesting part. Six months ago, your grandmother added a very specific clause. The house cannot be sold without your explicit written permission—regardless of any prior power of attorney. No exception, no workaround. She even had it notarized twice. Which means…”

She slid another document toward me.

“…if they completed a sale, someone forged your signature.”

My hands gripped the armrests.

“What?”

She pointed to a sale agreement with my name on it in neat, confident handwriting that looked almost, but not quite, like mine.

“This purports to be your signature on the transfer of property,” Skyler said. “Dated three weeks ago. But according to these emails and the boarding pass in your file, you were in Seattle for a work conference that entire week, correct?”

“Yes. I have flight receipts, hotel invoices, everything.”

“Good.” She settled back in her chair. “Keep them handy. We’re going to need them. The buyer—Edward Jackson—agreed to come in this morning. He deserves to know his purchase may not be valid. And you deserve to know exactly what your family has been saying about you behind closed doors.”

My phone buzzed.

Riley: Mom is furious you went to a lawyer. She says you’re betraying the family. This is getting out of hand, Nat. Just talk to her.

I showed the text to Skyler.

“Interesting,” she murmured. “Notice how they define betrayal.”

A knock at the door.

“Mr. Jackson,” Skyler called. “Please, come in.”

Edward Jackson looked like every successful small-town businessman you’ve ever seen on a local billboard—late forties, tailored navy suit, good shoes, a face that had learned to smile at clients and frown at spreadsheets. Today, he just looked uneasy.

“I assume this is about the house,” he said, glancing quickly at me. “Your mother assured me everything was in order.”

“My mother lied,” I said, more calmly than I felt. “I never signed any sale documents.”

His face paled.

“I—I don’t understand.”

Skyler slid the agreement across the desk. “The sale requires Ms. Natalie’s written consent. The signature on this document is not hers. She was in another state on the day it was supposedly signed.”

Edward ran a hand through his hair. “They told me you had agreed, that you were just too busy to come in for the signing. That you were struggling with grief and didn’t want to be involved in the paperwork.”

“They told you wrong,” I said. “That house means everything to me. My grandmother meant everything to me.”

“I know,” he said quietly. “Your mother mentioned that, actually. She said you were… ‘too emotional to see the financial opportunity.’”

There it was. The wording I knew by heart. Too emotional. Too attached. Too much.

“What else did they tell you?” I asked.

He hesitated, then opened his briefcase and pulled out a folder of printed emails.

“I think you should see these,” he said. “Your family has been planning this for months. They were very persistent about rushing the sale before certain… deadlines.”

As he spread the pages on Skyler’s desk, the words blurred together in front of me: need to close quickly… our daughter is sentimental… better if she doesn’t have too much time to think… we’ll get her to sign… she doesn’t understand business…

Another email, dated two days after Gran’s funeral, made my stomach churn.

If we don’t liquidate the property soon, we’ll lose our chance to stabilize the business before the review.

Skyler’s eyes sharpened. “Review?”

“My guess?” she said. “Audit. Which your parents were clearly expecting. And clearly very worried about.”

“There’s more,” Edward added. “Your mother also mentioned… items in the house. Valuable things your grandmother supposedly hid away. She said it was important to secure the property before you had a chance to—her words, not mine—‘start digging around and making trouble.’”

I thought of the tiny key taped to Gran’s letter. Of the way Mom’s eyes had flicked to the envelope when I’d held it up in the living room.

“Before I had a chance to find whatever it is Gran left for me,” I said.

Skyler gathered the emails into a neat stack and slipped them into a folder.

“This,” she said, “is excellent evidence of premeditation. We’re not just talking about a misunderstanding. We’re talking about a coordinated plan to sidestep the will, forge your signature, and move assets while hiding information from you. That’s fraud, at minimum.”

She reached for her phone. “Mr. Jackson, would you be willing to give a formal statement about these communications if needed?”

“Yes,” he said immediately. “I should have asked more questions when they kept pushing to ‘move quickly’ and ‘skip unnecessary steps.’ Something felt off. I just didn’t know how off.”

My phone buzzed again. Sullivan calling this time. I let it go to voicemail.

There was a commotion in the hallway, heels clicking hard against the floor, the faint scent of my mother’s perfume sliding under the door a second before it burst open.

Mom stood there, perfectly styled as always, hair sprayed into place, lipstick flawless. Riley hovered a step behind her, staring at the floor.

“Natalie,” Mom said, her voice smooth as glass. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Funny,” I replied, holding up the sale document, “I was about to ask you the same question. Care to explain this?”

She barely glanced at it. “Edward, we had a deal.”

“A deal based on false statements,” he said. “I’m withdrawing my offer.”

Mom’s composure cracked like a dropped ceramic mug.

“You can’t do that. We’ve already allocated the funds.”

“Allocated,” I repeated, standing. “You mean spent money you didn’t have yet. On what, exactly? The ‘business review’ you forgot to tell me about?”

Riley stepped forward, eyes shiny. “Nat, please. Mom and Dad need this. The business is—”

“Riley,” Mom snapped, warning clear in her tone. “That’s enough.”

“That house is nothing but a burden,” she said to me, switching back to her reasonable voice. “It’s old, it’s expensive, it’s falling apart. We did you a favor. You’re making a mistake fighting this.”

“Then why,” I asked quietly, “are you so desperate to sell it?”

I pulled Gran’s letter from my bag.

“What exactly are you afraid I’ll find in there?”

For the first time since this started, I saw something real in her eyes.

Fear.

“Whatever you think you know,” she said carefully, “you don’t understand the whole picture.”

“Then explain it,” I said. “What’s hidden in that house that’s worth forging my signature and risking jail time?”

The silence that followed felt heavy enough to crush the room.

“We’re done here,” she finally said, turning to leave. At the door, she paused and looked back. “Some secrets,” she added softly, “should stay buried with the dead.”

When she was gone, Skyler picked up her phone.

“I’m calling in a favor with a judge,” she said. “We need access to that house tonight, before anyone else gets clever.”

I barely made it to my car before Sullivan appeared, blocking my path.

“You’re making a huge mistake,” he said. His jaw was tight, that same look he got when his team was losing and he decided it was the referee’s fault.

“Mom and Dad put everything into this deal.”

“Everything they had, or everything they stole?” I asked.

He grabbed my arm, not hard enough to hurt but hard enough to warn. “Listen to me. The family business is underwater. Dad made some bad investments. This sale was the only way to fix it.”

“So that makes it okay to steal my inheritance?” I yanked my arm back. “To forge my name and lie to a buyer?”

“Your inheritance,” he repeated, laughing without humor. “You were always her favorite. Every Sunday dinner, every holiday, it was always ‘precious Natalie this, precious Natalie that.’ You really didn’t notice?”

“That’s not true.”

“No?” His eyes flashed. “Then why did she leave you the house and nothing to the rest of us? Why did she spend hours in that sunroom, whispering secrets to you while we stood in the yard wondering what made you so special?”

A car door slammed. Riley hurried across the parking lot, heels clicking on the asphalt.

“They’re meeting tonight,” she blurted, not looking at either of us. “At the Riverside Hotel. Eight p.m. It’s about the house.”

Sullivan spun around. “Riley, stop talking.”

“No.” She crossed her arms. “I’m done lying. Mom and Dad are planning something, Nat. Something big.”

“Why are you telling me?” I asked, searching her face for the sister I grew up sharing a room with, whispering secrets long after lights-out.

She took a shaky breath. “Because I went through Mom’s office last night. I found documents about Gran’s estate that don’t match the will. And because Mom told Sullivan to sign your name on the sale papers.”

“You forged my signature?” I asked, turning to my brother.

He at least had the decency to look ashamed.

“Mom said it was the only way,” he said quietly. “She said nobody would get hurt.”

“Well,” I said, my voice suddenly very calm, “she was wrong.”

My phone buzzed.

Skyler: Got the emergency order. Meet at the house in 30. We’ll secure everything we can.

“I have to go,” I said, stepping past them.

“Nat, wait,” Riley called. “The meeting tonight, it’s room 412. They don’t know I know. I heard Mom on the phone. Whatever they’re planning, it’s happening soon.”

Sullivan grabbed her arm. “You’re going to regret this.”

“No,” she said, pulling away. “I regret not speaking up sooner. Gran wouldn’t have wanted this.”

As I drove away, I texted Skyler again.

Change of plans. After the house, we need to crash a meeting at the Riverside. Bring your phone. Record everything.

The pieces were finally falling into place. And whatever secrets that house held, I knew one thing:

By tonight, they weren’t staying buried.

Room 412 at the Riverside Hotel in downtown Savannah had a connecting door to 414. Skyler and I stood in the darkened second room, ears pressed to the thin wall, my phone recording on the dresser between us.

Mom’s voice came through clear.

“…audit team arrives Monday,” she was saying. “If we don’t have that money transferred by then—”

“We know, Kennedy,” Dad interrupted, his voice rougher than I’d ever heard it. “But Natalie’s lawyer is causing problems. The buyer is spooked. He’s talking about backing out.”

“Then fix it, Griffin.” The chill in Mom’s tone raised goosebumps along my arms. “We didn’t spend thirty years building this business to watch it crumble because your mother decided to play favorites from beyond the grave.”

Skyler scribbled notes in the dim light.

Another voice chimed in—Edward’s.

“What about the paintings?” he asked. “You promised there were valuable artworks hidden in the house. That was a major part of the agreement.”

“There are,” Mom snapped. “Martha had a collection. Insurance documents valued it at over two million.”

My throat tightened. Gran’s art collection. The paintings she’d always shrugged off as “pretty things that make me happy.” She’d let me dust the frames when I was a kid, telling me stories about the cities they came from—Paris, New York, Chicago. I’d always thought she was being poetic.

“You’re sure they’re in the house?” Edward asked.

“In the walls,” Dad said. “Behind the wooden panels in the sunroom. That’s why we need to move fast. Once the audit team goes through the books, we’re finished.”

“Insurance fraud, art smuggling, money laundering,” Skyler murmured, underlining each word.

“…Martha knew,” Mom continued on the other side of the wall. “That’s why she changed her will at the end. Why she left everything to Natalie. She was trying to trap us.”

Dad exhaled. “Make sure we couldn’t get to the paintings without her.”

“Well, she failed,” Mom said, voice hard. “Once we get back in that house—”

The sharp crack of a door opening cut her off.

“Mom? Dad?” Riley’s voice. “What is going on?”

“Riley?” Mom sounded shocked. “What are you doing here?”

“I followed you,” she said. “I heard… I heard everything.”

“Honey, this doesn’t concern you.”

“It doesn’t concern me?” Her voice rose. “You’re stealing from Gran’s estate. From Natalie. You’re hiding paintings in the walls and talking about transfers before an audit. How does that not concern me?”

“We are protecting our family’s future,” Mom insisted. “You have no idea how serious this is.”

“By committing fraud?” Riley’s voice cracked. “By forging signatures and hiding artwork? That’s your idea of protection?”

“Your father and I had no choice,” Mom shot back. “The business—”

“Was failing because you were moving money where it didn’t belong,” Riley said. “Gran figured it out, didn’t she? That’s why she changed her will. That’s why she added that clause about Natalie’s consent.”

Silence, thick and heavy.

“How long have you known?” Dad finally asked.

“Long enough,” Riley said. “I found the real accounts, Dad. The ones you hid from the auditors. Gran didn’t leave clues just for Natalie. She left them for all of us—to see which one of us would finally do the right thing.”

Skyler touched my arm, nodding toward the connecting door. We had enough.

But then Riley said, clear and steady, “I’m calling the police.”

Mom’s response came out low and furious. “Like this is some kind of game? Like you can just pick up a phone and destroy everything we’ve built?”

Something crashed. Riley screamed.

My body moved before my brain caught up. I shoved open the connecting door.

Mom had Riley’s wrist in an iron grip, one hand squeezing, the other holding Riley’s phone, which she slammed into the wall, sending pieces scattering across the carpet.

“Get your hands off her,” I said.

Everyone froze.

Dad stood by the window, pale and shaking. Edward had taken a step toward the door as if calculating escape routes. Mom turned slowly, eyes blazing, hair slightly out of place for the first time in my life.

“Well,” she said, almost pleasantly, “the prodigal daughter joins us.”

Skyler stepped in behind me, phone in hand, still recording.

“I suggest you let her go, Kennedy,” she said. “Unless you’d like an assault charge added to the list.”

Mom released Riley’s wrist. Riley darted behind me, clutching my arm.

“You recorded everything, didn’t you?” she whispered. “Please tell me—”

“Every word,” I said. I looked at my parents. “The fraud. The forged documents. The paintings. The plan to move money before the audit. It’s all here.”

“You don’t understand,” Dad said hoarsely. “The business was failing. Clients were pulling out. We needed—”

“You needed to steal from your own mother?” I asked. “You needed to turn her house into a storage unit for stolen art?”

Edward cleared his throat. “I think it’s time I make a full statement about my involvement as well,” he said. He raised his phone. “I’ve been recording too. Ever since your first email about ‘moving quickly before certain people cause delays,’ I knew something was wrong.”

Mom stared at him, stunned. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“I already did,” he replied.

“You’re all making a terrible mistake,” Mom said. But her smooth mask was gone now, replaced with panic.

Riley squeezed my arm. “Natalie,” she whispered. “The paintings—they’re not just valuable. Gran figured out some of them were taken from other collections. That’s what Dad’s been doing with the business. Using it to move stolen artwork. Gran found out when one of her pieces turned out to be a replacement, not the original. That’s why she went to Skyler. That’s why she changed everything.”

Dad sank into a chair, looking suddenly older.

“Martha confronted me six months ago,” he said quietly. “Said she had proof. Said if I didn’t stop, she’d go to the authorities. That’s when she changed her will. When she added the clause about you, Natalie. She was trying to lock us out of the only leverage we had left.”

“You mean her house,” I said. “Her art. Her life.”

Skyler lifted her phone to her ear. “Yes, Detective Morris? This is Attorney Martinez. We’re at the Riverside Hotel. Room 412. We have multiple recorded admissions regarding art theft, forgery, and fraud. You’re going to want to hear this.”

Mom lunged toward Skyler, but I stepped between them.

“It’s over,” I said. “Gran gave me that house for a reason. She was protecting her legacy from people like you.”

“People like me,” Mom echoed, laughing once, the sound oddly sharp. “I built this family while she sat in that sunroom and judged us all from a moral high ground she didn’t earn.”

“No,” Riley said quietly. “You destroyed this family. Gran was trying to save what was left.”

Sirens wailed in the distance, growing louder.

“The paintings,” I said. “They’re still in the house, aren’t they?”

Mom’s silence answered for her.

I turned to Skyler. “We need to get there first.”

She nodded. “I’ll call ahead. Ask the detective to meet us there with a warrant.”

By the time we pulled up to Gran’s house, blue lights were already flashing at the curb. Detective Morris, tall and calm in a navy blazer, greeted us with a small nod.

“Ms. Martinez filled me in,” she said. “Let’s see what your grandmother’s been hiding.”

They found the paintings exactly where Dad said they would be—behind the wooden panels in the sunroom. Thirteen canvases, each carefully wrapped, each tagged with a small metal plate. Morris’s team moved around them with gloved hands and quiet, efficient motions.

“Your father’s import business was a perfect cover,” she explained. “High-end furniture in, artwork tucked inside shipments, moved through private warehouses. These pieces match descriptions from theft reports in New York, Chicago, even overseas.”

Sullivan showed up as they were loading the last painting into an evidence van.

“What have you done, Nat?” he demanded, voice breaking. “They’re going to jail. Our parents are going to jail.”

“I’m not the one who turned Gran’s house into storage for stolen art,” I said. “They did that all on their own.”

“They made their choice,” Riley added, stepping beside me. “Just like you did when you signed her name without asking.”

Detective Morris glanced up. “Is that an admission of forgery?”

Sullivan’s shoulders slumped. “Mom said nobody would get hurt,” he whispered. “She said this was just paperwork. That the worst case was a fine. I didn’t know about any of this.”

“No,” Riley said. “You just went along with whatever they wanted. Like all of us did, until now.”

“Ms. Natalie?” an evidence tech called out. “We found something else.”

From behind the last panel, they pulled a small metal box. My heart stumbled. It was exactly the size the little brass key in my pocket would fit.

“That’s private property,” Sullivan protested.

“Actually,” Skyler said, taking the box, “according to your grandmother’s will, everything in this house belongs to Natalie.”

The key turned with a satisfying click.

Inside lay a leather-bound journal and a small USB drive.

“Your grandmother contacted me months ago,” Skyler said quietly as she handed me the journal. “She’d already started collecting proof. She didn’t want to go to law enforcement until she was certain. And she wanted to give your parents a chance to stop on their own.”

I opened the journal to the last entry. Gran’s familiar handwriting blurred as tears filled my eyes.

My dearest Natalie,

If you’re reading this, then the storm has finally broken. I am so sorry you had to be the one to stand in it. I tried to guide your father gently. I failed. But you, my girl, you still have a chance to choose differently.

Our real legacy is not money or paintings. It is the courage to stand up for what is right, even when it costs us. Especially when it costs us. If you chose truth today, then you have already done what I could not.

I am so proud of you. Always.

Love, Gran.

By the time the sun dipped low, painting the sunroom in amber light, the house felt both emptier and safer. The police had taken the paintings. The evidence. The danger.

What was left was wood and glass and memory.

The next few weeks moved in slow, surreal waves.

My parents took a plea deal. Through Skyler, we learned they’d agreed to cooperate fully in exchange for reduced sentences. Their testimony helped dismantle an entire smuggling network that had stretched far beyond Savannah.

The business was dissolved. The legitimate assets were returned to Gran’s estate, just like the detective promised. The house, legally and undeniably, became mine.

“The recovery reward for those paintings will be substantial,” Skyler said one morning as we sat in Gran’s sunroom, now free of hidden panels and secrets. Riley sat across from me with a mug of tea. Sullivan hovered by the doorway, hands in his pockets.

“I don’t care about the money,” I said, tracing the rim of Gran’s favorite teacup. “I just wanted the art back where it belonged.”

Edward, now working with the insurance companies instead of against them, hung the last of the restored paintings on the wall—a small impressionist garden scene that looked eerily like Gran’s own backyard in Savannah.

“Your grandmother had incredible taste,” he said. “These aren’t just valuable. They’re beautiful.”

“She always said art should be lived with, not locked away,” Riley murmured, running her fingers lightly along the frame.

Sullivan cleared his throat.

“Listen, Nat,” he said. “About everything… I know ‘sorry’ doesn’t fix it. I know it doesn’t touch what I did.”

“No,” I agreed. “It doesn’t.”

“But maybe this will help,” he said, placing a stack of papers on the table. “I’m testifying against Dad’s business partners. All of them.”

Riley gasped. “Sully, those people are dangerous.”

“So is living with guilt,” he said. “Gran taught us better than this. I just forgot for a while.”

The doorbell rang. Edward went to answer it and returned with Detective Morris.

“Good news,” she said. “Your parents’ cooperation has paid off. We’ve made multiple arrests. The network is coming down, not just here but across several states. And the court has formally recognized your sole ownership of this property. No more legal hurdles.”

She glanced around the sunroom, at the stained glass, at the reclaimed art, at my brother and sister hovering close.

“Your grandmother’s legacy is safe now,” she added.

Later, after everyone left, I walked out to the garden wall. My fingers found the brick with the carved heart, the place Gran had chosen for her first secret. I rested my palm there, feeling the cool roughness beneath my skin.

“She knew,” I said quietly. Riley came to stand beside me.

“She knew this would happen,” she agreed. “Maybe not every detail, but enough.”

“Even if it took some of us longer than others to do the right thing,” I said.

“Doing the right thing late,” Riley said with a small smile, “is better than never doing it at all. You know who said that?”

“Gran,” we both answered together.

Inside, the house felt different.

Not haunted, not hollow.

Just… honest.

Edward and Skyler gathered their files near Gran’s antique desk.

“So,” Edward asked, glancing around the room. “What will you do with it? The house, I mean.”

I looked at the stained-glass windows catching the late-afternoon light, at the garden beyond, at the art on the walls, at my siblings—damaged, complicated, but standing here instead of hiding.

“Exactly what Gran wanted,” I said. “Make it a home again. A real one, this time. For the parts of this family that still remember how to tell the truth.”

Riley squeezed my hand. Sullivan gave a short, grateful nod.

That night, as the sun turned the sunroom gold and the city lights of Savannah flickered on in the distance, I found one last folded note tucked inside the back cover of Gran’s journal.

Remember, darling,

Revenge is sweet, but redemption is sweeter. Some families have to break before they can become stronger.

Love, always. Gran.

I closed the journal and pressed it to my chest.

She was right, as usual.

The house wasn’t just my inheritance. It was my second chance—to rebuild something honest from the ruins of what we’d lost, to draw a line and say, this is where the damage stops, to choose the kind of family that deserved a seat at this table.

And this time, we would do it right.