My blood ran cold. My mother had lawyered up.
“There’s nothing to resolve,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “The cabin is legally mine. The will is clear.”
“Ah, yes, the will,” Mark said with a condescending chuckle. “Wills can be tricky things. Contested all the time. Your mother and sister are, as you can imagine, quite distressed. They feel your grandfather, in his old age, may not have been, well, of sound mind when he made that particular bequest.”
I gripped the phone. “My grandfather was sharper than all of us combined right up until the end.”
“That’s a lovely sentiment, madam. But your mother is concerned. She feels he was under undue influence.”
“Influence from me?” I laughed, a short, bitter sound. “I’m a legal archivist. He was my grandfather. We loved each other. My mother is just angry she didn’t get her way.”
“Now, Caroline, let’s not get emotional. Susan is prepared to be very generous. She’s willing to offer you a significant cash buyout for your interest in the property, enough to make a very nice down payment on a condo in the city. You like the city, don’t you? Let Molly have the cabin, take the cash, and everyone walks away happy.”
He sounded just like her: polished, disingenuous, and utterly dismissive. He was a carbon copy of her values packaged in a pinstripe suit. He wasn’t a friend. He was a weapon.
“A buyout,” I repeated, tasting the word like ash. “You want me to sell my grandfather’s legacy? You want me to sell the place he built with his own hands so my sister can take selfies in it?”
“It’s just an asset, Caroline. Don’t be sentimental.”
That word again. Sentimental. My mother’s favorite insult.
“Let me be very clear, Mark. Tell my mother this. The cabin is not an asset. It is not for sale. Not now, not ever. If she or Molly set foot on my property again, I will have them arrested. And if you want to contest the will, I welcome you to try. I’m an archivist. I keep everything.”
I hung up the phone, my hand shaking, but not from fear. It was from adrenaline. They had formally introduced the antagonist, and he had, in one short phone call, confirmed my every suspicion. This was never about what Molly needed. This was about what Susan wanted to win.
The official-looking envelope arrived a week later. It was exactly what I expected: a petition to contest the will filed by Susan and Molly, represented by the law firm of Mark, whose full name was Mark Dalton. The petition claimed, just as he’d signaled, that Grandpa Arthur was of diminished mental capacity and had been unduly influenced by me. They were demanding the will be invalidated and the cabin be turned over to the estate to be managed by Susan.
They had actually done it. They were going to stand up in a court of law and slander the memory of their own father and grandfather.
The rage I felt was cold and sharp, like an icicle. It cleared my head. My mother and Mark Dalton thought this was an emotional, messy family squabble. They were about to find out it was a records-management problem, and I was the best records manager they’d ever meet.
This was the turning point. I was no longer a grieving granddaughter. I was a plaintiff.
I took a day off work and went to my bank. I emptied half of my savings, the rainy-day fund I’d been building for years, and transferred it to a new account. I walked down the street to the best, most shark-like estate law firm in the city and hired a lawyer named Miss Alani. She was an older woman with sharp eyes and a no-nonsense attitude.
“They’re contesting,” I said, laying the petition on her polished desk. “They’re claiming undue influence and diminished capacity. They’ve also already trespassed and caused damage to the property, which I have documented.”
Miss Alani read the petition, her expression unreadable.
“Your mother is the petitioner, and she’s a bank manager?”
“Yes,” I said.
“And your profession, you’re a legal archivist?”
“Yes.”
She looked up from the paper, a faint smile on her lips. “Oh, this is a mistake. A big one, on their part.”
“I want to fight this,” I said. “And I want to countersue for damages and legal fees. But I also want to go on the offensive. I want discovery. I want everything.”
“Discovery,” Miss Alani said, the word sounding like she was savoring a fine wine. “Given your mother’s position and her role as petitioner, that could be very interesting. They’ve opened a door they’re going to regret.”