While I was at work, my parents, my sister, and her two kids were already hauling boxes into my mountain house. Mom smiled like it was settled. “We all live here now. It’s family property.” They planned their big “move-in day.” I planned something else.

It wasn’t mine. It wasn’t left by the movers. And it wasn’t the kind of glove worn by hikers passing through.

My throat tightened.

Someone had been close to the house.

Close enough to drop this.

With no reason to be on my property.

The sheriff’s words replayed in my head.

Keep them from getting inside.

I set the glove on the porch railing, forcing my breath to slow.

It didn’t matter who had dropped it. After today, no one would be getting inside again.

At exactly seven a.m., a dusty brown pickup rumbled up my driveway. A man in his early fifties stepped out, shoulders broad, tool belt hanging low. He had the calm demeanor people in the mountains carry like second nature. His name, stitched onto his work shirt, read WALTER.

He gave me a polite nod.

“Morning, ma’am. Heard you need every lock replaced.”

I nodded.

“Every single one.”

He tilted his head slightly, the question unspoken. Family trouble.

He didn’t ask it out loud, but I saw it in his eyes. Maybe he’d seen it before. Maybe mountain homes brought out the worst in people who wanted what wasn’t theirs.

“Yes,” I finally said. “Family trouble.”

He didn’t push further.