Chapter 2 - The Envelope in My Grandmother's Name
I zoomed in on the photograph until the image became grainy.
There it was.
My grandmother's handwriting.
I knew it immediately.
Florence Bell.
She had written Christmas cards in that same narrow, elegant script all my life.
The envelope was thick enough to hold several documents.
And my name was written beneath hers.
Cassidy Bell.
My hands went cold.
I called Wren.
She answered in a whisper.
“Are you alone?”
“Yes.”
“Where's Dad?”
“Downstairs.”
“Mom?”
“Kitchen.”
“Then listen carefully.”
I sat down on the edge of Simone's guest bed.
“Where did you find it?”
“Dad's desk. Bottom drawer. Behind the old tax folders.”
“Why were you looking through his desk?”
“I wasn't. Mom told me to find the property insurance paperwork.”
My stomach tightened.
“What else was in there?”
“Bank statements.”
“How far back?”
“I don't know. Years.”
“Did you take pictures?”
“Yes.”
“Send them.”
A moment later my phone filled with photographs.
Bank statements.
Mortgage correspondence.
Insurance notices.
Tax documents.
Then one page caught my eye.
A certified letter from a law office.
Three years old.
The recipient was my father.
The subject line read:
NOTICE OF TRUST TRANSFER AND BENEFICIARY RIGHTS.
I swallowed.
“Wren.”
“Yeah?”
“Did you open Grandma's envelope?”
“No.”
“Good.”
A floorboard creaked.
She lowered her voice.
“I have to go.”
“Wait.”
“What?”
“Don't tell Mom you found it.”
“I won't.”
“Wren, lock your bedroom door tonight.”
Silence.
“Why?”
“I don't know yet.”
I ended the call.
Simone walked in carrying two mugs of coffee.
She took one look at my face.
“That bad?”
“I think my family has been lying to me.”
She handed me the coffee.
“That's a remarkably calm way to say that.”
I showed her the photograph.
She read the envelope.
“Florence Bell Estate Documents.”
She looked at me.
“Wasn't your grandmother the one who owned this house?”
“She bought it decades ago.”
“Then maybe this is about the house.”
“I thought Mom and Dad owned it.”
“Do you know that?”
I didn't answer.
Because suddenly, I realized I didn't.
The next morning, I drove back to the neighborhood.
Not home.
I didn't call it home anymore.
My old house looked exactly the same from the street.
But when I parked across from it, I noticed something that made my stomach tighten.
There was a real estate company's sign tucked behind the hedge.
Not in the front yard.
Behind it.
Almost hidden.
I got out of the car.
A silver SUV was parked in the driveway.
I recognized it.
Brent.
I walked toward the house.
Before I reached the porch, the front door opened.
Mom froze.
“You came back.”
“I left a folder.”
“What folder?”
“Something for work.”
Her eyes moved past me toward my car.
“Are you staying long?”
“No.”
She stepped aside.
I entered.
The house felt different.
My old bedroom door was closed.
There was a new lock.
I stopped.
“Why is there a lock on my door?”
Mom smiled too quickly.
“Brent is using the room.”
“Already?”
“It made sense.”
“Less than twenty-four hours after you told me to leave?”
Mom sighed.
“Cassidy, please don't start.”
“Where's Dad?”
“Working in the basement.”
I looked toward the hallway.
“What's that?”
A stack of cardboard boxes sat beside the stairs.
One was marked:
PROPERTY DOCUMENTS.
Mom moved in front of it.
“Old paperwork.”
“Where's the folder?”
“You said you left it.”
“I know.”
I looked at her.
She wouldn't meet my eyes.
Then Dad appeared.
“What are you doing here?”
“Picking something up.”
“Then pick it up.”
His tone was no longer warm.
No guilt.
No awkwardness.
Just irritation.
I stared at him.
“Dad, do you remember Grandma's estate?”
His expression changed.
Only for a second.
But I saw it.
“You mean what she left us?”
“Us?”
He recovered.
“She left things to the family.”
“Did she?”
He crossed his arms.
“Why are you asking?”
“I found a photograph.”
He went still.
“What photograph?”
That was enough.
He knew exactly what I meant.
I smiled faintly.
“Interesting.”
Mom stepped in.
“Cassidy, you should go.”
I didn't argue.
I turned toward the front door.
Then I saw a folder sticking out from beneath the cardboard box.
The tab was labeled:
DEED.
I reached for it.
Dad moved faster.
He grabbed the folder first.
“That's private.”
I stared at his hand.
Then at his face.
“Why is my name on it?”
His expression emptied.
“What?”
“My name.”
He said nothing.
Neither did Mom.
I stepped backward.
“Dad, what's in that folder?”
“It doesn't concern you.”
“I think it concerns me very much.”
He clenched his jaw.
“You've always had a habit of making everything about yourself.”
That sentence did something strange to me.
It hurt.
But it also cleared the fog.
I walked out.
Once I was in my car, Wren called.
“Cassidy?”
“Yeah.”
“Dad knows.”
“Knows what?”
“That I found the envelope.”
My chest tightened.
“How?”
“Because he came upstairs after you left.”
“What did he say?”
Wren hesitated.
“He asked me whether you had contacted a lawyer.”
I stared through the windshield.
“I haven't.”
“There's more.”
“What?”
“Mom was crying.”
“Why?”
“Because Dad said, ‘If Cassidy sees the original, we lose everything.’”
I closed my eyes.
Then Wren whispered the sentence that changed everything.
“Cassidy… I think Grandma didn't leave the house to Mom and Dad.”
The coffee in my cup trembled in my hand.
“Who did she leave it to?”
May you like
Wren's voice broke.
“You.”
