“My father built this house brick by brick. He planted every tree with his own hands. This isn’t money. It’s his legacy, his sweat, and his soul.”
“Wake up. Everything is money,” she shot back, her facade of sweetness finally dropping to reveal the cold greed underneath. “And tomorrow you’ll learn that the hard way. We have the documents, Cassandra. We have Jesse. What do you have? A few dying flowers and a pair of rusty scissors?”
She turned to leave, but before walking out through the garden gate, she threw one last blow: “Oh, and you should probably start packing your things tonight. Simon and I are going to remodel as soon as we move in. We’ll start by ripping out these outdated rose bushes. Everything here needs to look more modern, more… us.”
Her heels faded down the path, the clicking sound eventually replaced by the hum of the cicadas. I looked down at the white flowers and realized I had crushed several petals with my dirt-covered hand. The beauty of the garden felt fragile, under siege by people who saw only dollar signs where my father saw life.
I pulled out my phone and called immediately. “Attorney Brenda, it’s me,” I said as soon as she answered. “Misty just came to threaten me. She’s claiming they have documents… that Jesse helped them. She mentioned my father’s ‘mental state.’”
Brenda’s tone changed instantly from professional to fiercely protective. “What did she say exactly?”
I recounted the conversation, the threats to the roses, the mention of Simon being ‘like a son,’ and the cryptic hint about my father’s confusion. “Brenda, if they manipulated him while he was sick… if Jesse helped them…”
“Can you come over? There’s something I need to check before tomorrow,” Brenda said. “And don’t worry, Cassandra. Your father planned further ahead than all of them. He was sharper than people gave him credit for, even at the end.”
I hung up, feeling a flicker of hope. As I knelt to pick up my tools, I saw something caught under one of the rose bushes—a small envelope, damp from the morning dew and partially hidden by the low-hanging leaves of the ‘Peace’ variety my father loved most. I recognized my father’s handwriting immediately. It was elegant, slightly shaky but unmistakable.
It was addressed to me: For Cassandra, when the vultures arrive.
I picked it up with trembling hands, feeling like the paper weighed more than it should, as if it didn’t just hold words, but a final move in a game I hadn’t realized was being played. I sat on the stone bench my father had built and tore it open.
