My husband had spent years warning me never to set foot on that farm. So after he passed away and the lawyer handed me the key, saying that from now on the place belonged to me, I was ready to sell it right away and put everything behind me. But before making my final decision, I still wanted to see it once for myself. When the door opened, I finally understood why, all those years, he had never wanted me to set foot there.

It was the first time he had spoken. His voice was softer than the others’, almost careful, which made the question more dangerous, not less. It let him pose as the thoughtful one. The brother who merely wanted clarity. The brother who could say the hardest thing with no visible aggression at all.

Why the secrecy.

Because he was dying. Because he was trying to build beauty before the dark closed in. Because he trusted you so little he designed legal redundancies from beyond the grave.

But I could not say any of that yet. Not to them. Not in front of Jenna while her emotions were still pointed in the wrong direction.

Instead I said, “Complicated family history is not evidence of confusion.”

Jenna crossed her arms. “That’s not really an answer.”

Something in me softened then, unexpectedly. Not toward the brothers. Toward her. She looked tired. Too polished. Too fast. Like a child wearing certainty because grief had left her underdressed.

“Maybe not,” I said. “But it’s the only answer you’re getting while they’re standing in my living room.”

Robert’s mask slipped then, if only by half an inch.