I looked down at the trust document spread across my desk.
“The beach house belongs to me,” I replied calmly. “Mom placed it in a trust before she died.”
He hesitated. I could hear the faint sound of a glass touching the table on his end of the line.
“Diana told me you were not interested in the property anymore,” he said slowly. “She said you never visited and did not want the responsibility.”
I let out a quiet breath.
“I will handle this,” I told him.
Then I hung up.
An hour later I booked a flight to Logan Airport for the following morning.
The fog rolled thick along the Massachusetts coast when my car finally reached the narrow road leading to the house. Through the haze I saw the familiar outline of the building standing against the ocean.
But something about it looked wrong.
The railing had been replaced with sleek modern panels and new security cameras watched from each corner of the roof. A bright red luxury sedan sat in the driveway where my mother once kept a small wooden garden shed.
Before I even stepped out of the car the front door flew open.
Diana marched toward me in expensive athletic clothes while Madeline followed behind her holding a phone pointed directly at my face.
“I told you not to come here!” Diana shouted.
“Go ahead and call the police,” I replied calmly while pulling my suitcase from the trunk. “I already did.”
At that exact moment two patrol cars turned into the driveway.
One of the officers stepped out and approached us with professional calm.
“Mrs Crawford,” he said, addressing Diana. “We received your complaint about trespassing.”
“Yes,” she snapped while pointing at me. “That woman has no right to be here.”
The officer opened a folder.
