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.

The words sliced through the air like a knife.

“Lydia,” I murmured.

Gloria’s lips pressed into a tight line.

“I thought so too.”

I walked past her before I could respond, needing to see for myself.

Officer Hartman—the same deputy from move-in day—stepped toward me, expression professional but edged with concern.

“Ms. Monroe,” he said. “Good thing you came quickly.”

“What happened?” My voice came out tight, clipped.

Hartman gestured toward the back deck.

“We found evidence of a forced entry attempt. Looks like someone tried to pry open your doorframe.”

I followed him, boots crunching across the frosty planks. There it was—the damage, illuminated by a beam from the officer’s flashlight.

Fresh gouges in the wood around the lock. Splintered edges where a tool had been wedged between door and frame.

Someone had tried to break into my home.

I reached out and touched the wood, the grooves biting back against my fingertips.

My heart thudded a slow, painful rhythm.

“She really did it,” I whispered. “She actually tried.”

Hartman’s voice softened.

“You know the person, most likely.”

“My sister,” I said, swallowing hard.

He nodded grimly.