“Take down the listing. Refund the guests. Return the key. Put in writing that you had no permission and that you will not do this again. That is still on the table.”
His tone hardened.
“You are going to damage a family relationship over a few thousand dollars?”
“No,” I said. “You risked the relationship when you decided my no did not count.”
He hung up.
I did not sleep much that night.
Not because I feared him. Not exactly. It was the heaviness that comes when a suspicion becomes a fact. I thought about Graham at twelve, swimming off the dock until his lips turned blue and Dad had to yell him out of the water. I thought about the summer he helped Dad pour concrete footings for the back addition, both of them sunburned and proud. I thought about him sitting beside Dad’s hospital bed, his shoulders shaking.
People are not one thing.
That is part of the trouble.
A man can love his father and still misuse what his father built. A man can help in the hospital and still help himself later. A man can remember the same childhood you do and decide it entitles him to something entirely different.
The listing was still active the next morning.
I checked at 6:15 while coffee brewed and the loons gave their first calls of the day.
Still there.
Still accepting inquiries.
I called Patricia.
“He has not complied,” I said.
“Then we move.”
She filed the civil application and made the formal referral that afternoon.
The RCMP corporal assigned to the file was named Luc Arseneau. He called me the following day. His voice was patient, Cape Breton, and methodical in a way I appreciated immediately.
He did not talk like a television officer. He talked like a man who had spent years sorting out disputes that were not simple just because the facts were clear.
I walked him through everything: Dad’s will, the deed transfer, Graham’s calls, Elaine’s call, my notebook entries, the Hendersons’ arrival, the listing, the reviews, the cease-and-desist letter, and the fact that the listing had stayed active after notice.
“You changed the locks?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Installed cameras?”
“Yes.”
“Good. If your brother appears at the property, do not confront him. Call me.”
“I am capable of a conversation.”
“I am sure you are. I am asking you not to have one alone.”
That was fair.
Three days later, the first trail camera notification came while I was in Baddeck buying groceries.
Graham’s truck rolled slowly down the lane.
The camera captured him stepping out, walking to the front door, trying the handle, then standing still when it did not open. He went around back. Tried that door. Then he crossed to the boathouse and found the new padlock.
For nearly two minutes, he stood at the dock looking across the lake.
The camera angle was not close enough to show his face clearly, but I knew my brother’s posture. His shoulders were set the way they used to be when Dad refused him something and Graham was deciding whether charm or pressure would work better.
He left without forcing anything.
I sent the footage to Corporal Arseneau.
The corporal called me ten minutes later.
“Thank you. Also, there appear to be two active bookings still scheduled. One this coming Saturday. Guests from Ontario.”
“I saw that before the listing refreshed.”
“Your brother may attempt to honor the reservation despite the notice. If anyone arrives, call me directly before you engage.”
Saturday came clear and cold.
A dangerous kind of day because it looked gentle. Late October light on the lake, brilliant and clean. The remaining maple leaves holding fire on the far shore. Air sharp enough to make every sound distinct.
I spent the morning splitting wood. Around two in the afternoon, tires sounded on the gravel lane.
Graham’s truck came first.
Behind it, a small SUV with Ontario plates.
I set down the armload of wood I was carrying and went inside.
I called Corporal Arseneau.
“They’re here,” I said.
“I’m on my way. Stay inside. Observe only.”
I stood at the kitchen window.
Graham got out and walked toward the SUV with a host’s smile. A couple stepped out, both in their forties, dressed for a scenic weekend and not a legal complication. The woman pointed toward the lake. Graham gestured broadly, as if presenting a property he owned, as if the sunlight itself were part of the package.
The man opened the back of the SUV and began pulling out luggage.
Then Graham came to my front door.
He knocked.
“Tom. Just me.”
I did not answer.
He knocked harder.
“I know you’re in there. Don’t do this.”
I stayed seated at the kitchen table and wrote the time in my notebook.
2:14 p.m.
Second knock. Raised voice.
2:16 p.m.
He walked to the kitchen window.
Our eyes met through the glass.
His face changed when he saw me sitting calmly with the notebook open.
He lifted both hands, a gesture halfway between appeal and surrender.
“Just let us get through this weekend,” he said through the glass. “They drove from Toronto. I’ll take down the listing after. I’ll give you every dollar. Just don’t embarrass me in front of these people.”