Chapter 3

My phone rings in the quiet dusk. The screen displays Grant’s name.

I swipe to answer and press the phone to my ear.

"Did you find the orange flags, Erin?" Grant’s voice is cold, smooth, and entirely unbothered. "Tomorrow morning, the court will hear our guardianship petition. After that hearing is finished, you will never be allowed to step foot on this property again."

"You filed to rezone a protected wetland, Grant," I say, my voice steady against the howling wind. "You don't own this land. Marianne does."

"Marianne signed an authorization months ago," Grant replies smoothly. "And tomorrow, the legal reality catches up. Pack your things."

The line goes dead with a sharp click.

I stand alone beside the orange survey flag, the cold air burning my lungs. I know he won't wait. If I don't get into the studio tonight, I will lose everything.

---

Twenty minutes later, I am back at Grandma's house.

The main house is dark. Inside her bedroom, Grandma Marianne is sitting upright by the window. Her silver hair catches the pale moonlight. When I open her door, she turns her head slowly.

For a second, her eyes are completely clear.

"Erin," she whispers, her voice frail like dry autumn leaves. "The frost always comes from the east."

I freeze. I walk over and kneel beside her armchair, taking her cold hands in mine. "Grandma, what do you mean? What's in the east?"

Marianne blinks, her gaze drifting toward the shadows of the room. The sharp light in her eyes fades away, replaced by the familiar, hazy fog of her dementia. She squeezes my fingers weakly. "The garden... the eastern wall. It's cold."

She doesn't say anything else.

I don't push her. Instead, I stand up and walk out to the back garden, heading straight for the wooden studio with the new silver deadbolt Grant installed this morning.

Grandma’s words echo in my mind: The frost always comes from the east.

I walk to the exterior eastern wall of the studio. I run my hands along the weathered cedar panels. Halfway down, near the base where the ivy grows thick, my fingers catch on a slight unevenness in the wood.

One of the cedar planks is loose.

I pull at it. With a dry, muffled pop, the hidden wooden panel swings open.

Inside the dark cavity sits a small, heavy bundle wrapped in faded blue cloth.

---

I pull it out and unwrap the cloth on the grass.

It is a small, old-fashioned cassette recorder. Beside it lies a handwritten note in Grandma’s neat, precise handwriting:

"If you are listening to this, Grant has locked the doors. The blue cabinet holds the truth, but you must enter legally. The flags are coming. Listen first."

I press play.

Grandma’s voice fills the quiet night, clear and strong, recorded during a time when her mind was sharp as a blade.

"If Grant ever restricts access to this studio, it means he has begun transferring the trust assets," the recorded voice says. "Erin, do not break the locks. Do not give them a reason to call you unstable. You must enter through the court. The blue cabinet inside will show you that this development is not about profit—it is about burying what happened to your mother."

The tape clicks off.

My chest tightens. My mother. For years, the family whispered that my mother walked away from us, that she took a settlement and left.

Before I can process the weight of the tape, headlights flash across the driveway.

A car door slams. Footsteps crunch sharply on the gravel.

"Erin!"

It’s Ruth. My aunt strides around the corner of the house, her face twisted in sharp irritation. She stops dead when she sees me standing by the open wall panel with the blue cloth in my hand.

"What are you doing?" Ruth snaps, marching right toward me. "Stealing family property now? Give that to me."

She reaches out, her fingers clawing toward the recorder.

For the first time, I don't step back. I pull my arm away, step directly into her path, and raise my chin.

"You can file a formal written request for copies," I say, my voice echoing off the wooden walls. "But you cannot take another single thing from this house."

Ruth gasps, stepping back as if I had struck her. Her eyes widen with absolute shock. She is used to me shrinking, apologizing, crumbling under her moral weight.

Before she can recover her voice, my phone buzzes in my pocket.

It is an automated notification from the county courthouse.

The judge has reviewed my emergency filing. Because Grant failed to provide proper immediate care documentation, the court has granted a limited order: Fifty-eight minutes of legal, supervised access to the studio tomorrow morning.

I look straight at Ruth, my heart pounding a fierce, steady rhythm.

"See you in the morning, Ruth," I say softly.

---

The next morning, the court bailiff unlocks the heavy padlock on the studio door. Fifty-eight minutes. That is all I have.

I step inside the dusty, sunlit room where Grandma and I spent years painting. I walk straight past the easels, straight to the old wooden cabinet standing in the corner.

Grandma’s note said the key was hidden in the garden ledger.

I grab the thickest botanical ledger from the shelf, flip to the very last page, and find a small silver key taped behind the back cover.

I slide the key into the old iron lock of the blue cabinet.

It turns with a heavy, satisfying click.

I pull the cabinet doors open. Inside, neatly stacked files line the shelves.

On the very top file, typed in bold, undeniable letters, is a title that makes the blood freeze in my veins:

POLLUTION INCIDENT REPORT – SETTLEMENT AND RELEASE

Right beneath it, typed out in full, is my mother’s full name.

Before I can even reach out to touch the paper, heavy footsteps echo on the wooden porch outside. The door swings wide open.

Grant stands in the doorway, blocking the morning light. His face is pale, his eyes cold and furious.

"Take your hands off that cabinet, Erin," Grant says, his voice dangerously low.