I read the second line twice, my fingers numb. “Your father does not know this place is yours, and I made sure of that.” The letter was dated three weeks before Mom died, her slanted handwriting soft against the page. I was still holding it when Rusty went rigid at the door and let out a low growl.

Through the trees came the rumble of an engine. Headlights swept the frosted window, and a car door slammed. I blew out the lamp and gripped the iron poker as boots crunched toward the porch. Then Diane’s voice floated in, sweet and cold. “Honey? We came back. We need to talk about the cabin.” A pause. “Mr. Whitcomb called your father this morning, and now everything has changed.”