Cassie reached for the notepad from the secretary desk and clicked a pen. “We do not panic. We build a timeline. How long are they gone?”
“Seven days. They fly back Tuesday.”
“Good. That means we have a window.” She began writing in block letters. “Step one: duplicate every piece of evidence in at least three places. Step two: you call a lawyer tomorrow morning. Not a gentle one. A shark in tasteful shoes. Step three: banking. Lock everything. Step four: the house.”
My gaze followed hers around the living room. Stained glass in the front window, a carved oak banister, original hardwood floors polished by Betty’s routines and my own. The turret room upstairs where Tiffany used to film “cozy sister chats” whenever she visited. The fireplace mantel where Betty kept Christmas cards in silver frames. The house was more than real estate. It was the only place in my life that had ever felt chosen for me with love.
“I can’t let them get it,” I whispered.
“Then don’t.” Cassie’s pen tapped the paper. “But you also can’t stay here if they are circling it like vultures. As long as you’re in the nest, they think you’re still playing.”