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.

Another of Joshua’s hidden precautions. Security installed quietly throughout the property, tasteful enough not to turn the place into a fortress, effective enough to record every approach. Six months earlier I would have called it excessive. Now it felt like another conversation across time with a man who had understood his brothers far better than I wanted him to.

That afternoon I went back to the war room beneath the barn.

There, in the bottom drawer of Joshua’s desk, I found a folder labeled IF THEY RETURN.

Inside were contingency plans. Injunction drafts. Contact information for regulatory investigators in Toronto and Calgary. Notes on how Robert tended to escalate when he felt cornered. Suggestions on which of the brothers would crack first under financial scrutiny. And at the very back, sealed in an envelope, a letter addressed to Robert Mitchell in Joshua’s hand.

Paperclipped to it was a note.

Last resort.

I slipped the envelope into my pocket.

The next morning, all three brothers arrived at the gate in the black SUV, accompanied by a modest sedan and two men I did not recognize.

Ellis came to find me in the great room.