The brass key turned with a soft click. Inside the box lay a thick folder, a small digital recorder, and a smaller sealed note. I opened the folder first, and my breath caught. It held the deed to the Destin mansion, but the owner was not Melanie. It was a trust, and the trustee was listed as me. Beneath it was a page in Margaret’s hand: “Melanie may live there only while she treats you with respect. She has not earned it outright.”

I pressed play on the recorder. Margaret’s weak voice filled the quiet cabin. “Frank, three months ago I overheard Melanie and Grant planning to move you into a care home and sell everything. I recorded them.” Then came Melanie’s laugh, clear and cold, discussing how to get my signature. My hands shook. Outside, tires crunched on gravel, and a car door slammed. Through the window, I saw Melanie’s white SUV.