Chapter 3

By dawn, the surveyor was standing beside the rose trellis outside the flower shop, aiming his equipment at the second-floor windows.

When I pushed open the side door, he looked up and asked politely, “Mrs. Pierce? I thought you knew about today’s assessment.”

“What assessment?”

His smile disappeared. He checked the address on his tablet, then looked at the sign above the flower shop behind me.

“Someone hired us for a pre-listing survey,” he said carefully. “We’re measuring the house, checking whether the flower shop can be converted into living space, and assessing the grounds.”

“Who hired you?”

“I’m sorry. I can’t disclose client information.” He packed the equipment back into its case. “You should speak with Mr. Pierce directly. We’ll be back before next Friday. The realtor is bringing people through then.”

He did not say much, yet he had said enough.

Wren House was the home my mother had left me.

I worked downstairs, slept upstairs, and spent her final months moving between the flower shop and her bedroom.

Nolan knew I had never planned to sell it.

I made myself let the surveyor leave.

He was being paid to do a job. He was not going to explain what story Nolan had told him.

When I went back inside, Nolan was already gone.

He had left a note saying he might be late again that night and telling me not to wait for dinner.

His handwriting was still neat, even the little heart at the end looking like part of a routine.

I slipped the note into my bag and prepared to open the flower shop.

At the front door, I found a stiff paper folder in the mailbox, printed with the name of a real estate company.

It was addressed to:

Nolan Pierce and Ava Bennett Pierce.

My fingers rested on the flap for a long time before I opened it.

Inside were photographs of Wren House: the glass roof, my mother’s rose wall, and the upstairs window where I still left a lamp on every night. They made it look as though the house already belonged to someone else.

The final page was a draft listing.

A Fresh Start for a Growing Family.

Tucked beneath it was a crayon drawing.

There were four people in the picture. Nolan stood in the middle. Claire held his hand. Mia held a small dog. Behind them was Wren House, its flower shop door painted blue, with a message written in crooked letters across it:

My New Home.

I turned to the final page and found a confirmation for a consultation about selling the property.

My name was written in the signature box.

Ava Bennett Pierce.

The letters looked convincing. Even the long crossbar I always gave the A was there.

But I knew at once that I had not written it.

I did not call Nolan.

I photographed every page, placed the folder back exactly as I had found it, and sat at the worktable in the flower shop. Then I called the attorney my mother had used after she died.

Her assistant told me the earliest appointment was the following morning.

I took it.

Before hanging up, I turned Mia’s drawing over.

On the back, Claire had written a date in blue ballpoint pen.

Next Friday.

The same day the surveyor said the realtor would bring people through.