My stepmother called just as the day was folding into evening, her voice dripping with a satisfaction so sharp I could almost see the smile stretching across her face. She told me, with deliberate precision, that I would never set foot in the family beach house again—that every lock had already been changed.

We returned to the kitchen because it had the best light and the biggest table and because, despite everything Diana had done to the place, my mother’s kitchen still felt like the one room where truth belonged by default. The officers stayed. So did the locksmith, who looked increasingly like a man who had planned to spend his morning swapping deadbolts and now found himself inside the emotional collapse of an upper-middle-class inheritance war.

Diana tried to object.

“This is absurd,” she said. “You are not opening private family correspondence in front of strangers.”

Evelyn looked at the handwriting again. “It is addressed to my client, with instructions to open it with me. I’m touched that Eleanor trusted me this much even before she needed to, but I can assure you your approval is not a legal prerequisite.”

I sat down at the table. My fingers had gone strangely cold. Outside the kitchen window, the sea was brightening under a clearing sky. Inside, the house felt like it was holding its breath.

I slid one finger beneath the flap and broke the seal.

Inside were several pages, all written by hand. My mother’s hand. Steady, careful, slightly slanted to the right.