Chapter 5
The front door clicked shut as the last of the casual guests evacuated, leaving only an oppressive, heavy silence in the cabin. The ambient light from the setting sun filtered through the tall pine trees, casting long, bruised shadows across the hardwood floor. Margaret remained seated on the rust-colored sofa, her posture relaxed yet vigilant, watching Helen with the calculating detachment of a chess player waiting for her opponent’s next move.
“If you have a deed,” Helen said, her voice cutting through the quiet with razor-like sharpness, “show me.”
Margaret blinked, surprised by the sudden pivot from grief to pragmatism. A slow, cautious smile touched her lips again. “It’s in the desk in the study. Along with the bill of sale, the bank transfer records, and a letter written in Emily’s own handwriting explaining why she wanted the transaction kept quiet from her family.”
Helen didn’t hesitate. She turned on her heel, her sensible shoes clicking sharply against the wooden floorboards, and strode down the narrow hallway toward the back of the cabin. The study was a small, wood-paneled room that had once belonged to her late husband. It was where he used to clean his fishing gear and keep his ledgers. Pushing the door open, Helen flipped the brass wall switch. A vintage banker’s lamp cast a warm, focused pool of light over a heavy oak roll-top desk.
Margaret followed at a leisurely pace, leaning against the doorframe with her arms crossed over her cream cable-knit sweater. “Help yourself,” Margaret gestured with a tilt of her head. “Nothing to hide.”
May you like
Helen approached the desk, her fingers brushing the polished wood. The roll-top was unlocked. She slid it upward with a dry, rattling sound. Inside, neatly stacked folders sat alongside a laptop and a ceramic pen holder. Her eyes scanned the labels until she found one marked Property Title & Acquisition. With trembling fingers, Helen pulled the manila folder out and flipped it open. The top document was indeed a deed of sale, bearing a signature that bore an uncanny, terrifying resemblance to Emily’s looping, artistic handwriting.
Yet, as Helen stared closer under the harsh glare of the lamp, microscopic discrepancies began to emerge. The ink flow was too uniform, lacking the variable pressure of Emily’s habitual fountain pen. More damningly, the date on the notarized seal predated the period when Emily had supposedly returned to the cabin for the summer. Helen’s breath caught in her throat. This document wasn’t just suspicious; it was a clumsy forgery crafted by someone who knew Emily’s name and handwriting style, but not her daily habits.
