I stood up. I walked into my kitchen. I moved the olive oil, the salt shaker, and the little jar of paprika. I reached behind the heavy wooden spice rack that my daughter had painted blue for my fiftieth birthday.

My fingers touched a seam in the wood. I pulled.

A thin piece of plywood came away, and there, tucked into the hollow space, was a thick manila envelope. Inside was the deed to the Cleveland property, signed by Beth, with my name listed as the sole beneficiary in the event of her death. There was also a small notebook listing every bank account, every deposit, and a timeline of Mark’s withdrawals for “S. Miller.”

They had been trying to get me to sign a quitclaim deed on that Cleveland property for three months.

Sarah had sent me three different letters, saying the taxes were too high for a woman my age to handle.

That night was the wedding rehearsal dinner.

It was held at a historic inn in downtown Toledo, a very expensive place with brick walls and white tablecloths. Mark’s parents were there, along with Sarah’s family, and about twenty of their friends.

I walked in through the heavy oak doors at 8 PM.

Sarah was standing near the fireplace, holding a glass of white wine.

She was wearing a white lace dress, her blonde hair curled perfectly. Mark was beside her, laughing at something his father said.

When Mark saw me, his smile faltered slightly.

“Ellie,” he said, stepping forward. “We didn’t think you were coming. We set a plate for you just in case, but…”

“I brought a gift,” I said. My voice was very loud. It carried across the room, cutting through the chatter and the clinking of glasses.

Sarah turned, her blue eyes narrowing just a fraction before she put on her sweet, bridal smile.

“Ellie, how lovely,” she said, walking over. “You really didn’t have to bring anything.”

I reached into my purse. I didn’t pull out a card. I pulled out my phone, and a small portable bluetooth speaker I had borrowed from my neighbor. I set the speaker on the main table, right next to the crystal vase of white roses.

“What is that?” Mark asked, his brow furrowing.

“It is a message from Beth,” I said.

I pressed play on my phone.

My daughter’s voice, scratchy and terrified, filled the elegant dining room.

“Mom, I’m scared. Sarah is driving. We are going to the cabin to talk, but she won’t stop the car. She keeps saying we need to reach an agreement about the money. Mark is on the phone with her. I can hear him on the speaker. He’s yelling at me.”

Sarah’s face went completely white. She dropped her wine glass. It didn’t shatter on the thick carpet, but the pale yellow liquid soaked into the hem of her white lace dress.