I understand what it means when someone gets hurt on your property.
And I really understand what it means when someone gets hurt on your property because a known hazard wasn’t addressed.
The fact that Travis was the one operating the rental didn’t necessarily shield me.
I was the owner.
My name was on the deed.
Travis hadn’t just been disrespecting my property.
He’d been creating legal exposure that could cost me everything.
My savings. My credit. Potentially even the cabin itself if a judgment went high enough.
I called Margaret Solis that afternoon.
She was Pop’s estate attorney, and she was the only lawyer I trusted enough to be direct with.
I told her everything.
The unauthorized use, the rentals, the Venmo payments, the injury.
She was quiet for a moment, then said, “Cody, I want you to listen to me carefully. You need to document everything you have. Every text, every photo, every conversation. And you need to seriously consider your options regarding that property.”
“What do you mean, options?”
“I mean that right now, that cabin is an asset. But if Derek Voss files suit and a court finds you liable as the property owner, it becomes a liability. A big one. You need to decide what that property is worth to you emotionally versus financially and make a clear-eyed decision.”
I knew what she was suggesting.
I just wasn’t ready to hear it yet.
“There’s one more thing,” Margaret said. “Your aunt, has she been involved in any of this?”
“She knows Travis uses the cabin. I don’t know if she knows about the rentals.”
“Find out. Because if Diane encouraged or facilitated any of this, that changes the landscape considerably.”
I told her I’d look into it.
That night, I lay on my couch staring at the ceiling while Lena read next to me.
She didn’t ask what I was thinking about.
She already knew.
Here’s the part that still sits heavy with me.
I love that cabin.
I loved it the way you love something that connects you to someone who’s gone.
Not because the thing itself is irreplaceable, but because every board and nail and coat of varnish is a conversation you can’t have anymore.
Pop built that cabin.
And when I was there, I could still hear him telling me which tool to hand him and why the grain of the wood mattered and how you always measure twice because lumber’s expensive and mistakes aren’t free.
And now my cousin had turned it into a weekend rental and gotten someone hurt.
And my aunt thought it should have been hers all along.
And my father couldn’t find the spine to tell either of them to stop.
I called Margaret back the next morning and said, “Tell me about selling.”
Margaret didn’t sugarcoat it.
“If you sell, you eliminate the liability exposure. Any claim against the property transfers to a question of past ownership, and with documentation that Travis operated without your authorization, you’ve got a strong argument to redirect Voss’s claim entirely. But you need to move quickly. Once a suit is filed, selling becomes more complicated.”
I asked her what the property was worth.
She connected me with a real estate appraiser she trusted, a guy named Don Frasier, who specialized in rural and lakefront parcels.
Don drove out to Blackwell Lake the following week.
Walked the property, inspected the cabin, and came back with a number that was higher than I expected.
Not life-changing money, but solid enough for a real down payment on my own land someday.
Enough to mean something.
“The lake frontage is the value driver,” Don told me. “The cabin’s in decent shape for its age, but it’s the water access and the acreage that people pay for. You’d have buyers interested within a week of listing.”
I didn’t want to list it publicly.
I didn’t want a sign on the road.
I didn’t want Diane driving past and seeing a for-sale notice before I was ready.
Don understood.
He said he had a client who’d been looking for exactly this kind of property.
A retired schoolteacher named Glenn Whitaker from Garfield, two towns over.
Quiet guy, fly fisherman, no interest in development, just wanted a place to sit on a dock and read.
“Would you want to meet him?” Don asked.
I said yes.
Glenn Whitaker was 64 years old, had a firm handshake, and wore the kind of flannel shirt that looked like it had actually been worn for work, not bought at a store that plays folk music.