Teenager overhears half-sister plotting to seize family legacy after father's death
The next few days at Bloomwood were a blur of furious activity. I documented every single action I took, from pruning the climbing roses to checking the elaborate irrigation system. I felt like a detective in my own home, snapping photos of healthy growth even as I felt the crushing weight of the probate court deadline. But my mind was fixed on Eleanor’s advice: keep my eyes and ears open.
My opportunity came during one of Chloe and Marcus’s increasingly frequent “visits” to Bloomwood. They were here under the guise of “helping” me sort through Dad’s personal effects, but their eyes always lingered on the conservatory, on the property itself. I watched them, pretending to organize books in the living room while they talked in hushed tones in the adjacent study.
Marcus was on his phone, his voice a low rumble. I couldn’t quite catch every word, but “Bethany” and “market feelers” and “discreet conversations” floated through the thin wall. He sounded agitated, occasionally glancing over his shoulder as if he expected me to materialize. Chloe sat opposite him, nodding, her gaze coolly assessing.
This wasn’t the first time I’d overheard Bethany’s name in their conversations. For days, I’d noticed Marcus stepping out for hushed calls after their late-night meetings at Bloomwood, always mentioning “Bethany” or “the outreach.” It was always secretive, never part of their public front of “support.”
I realized then that this was my chance. I needed to talk to Bethany.
I spent an hour crafting a plausible excuse, something innocent enough not to raise alarms, but direct enough to get a response. I found Bethany Price’s email address on the Albright & Associates Realty website. She was indeed listed as a junior partner.
My email was simple: a polite inquiry about the general real estate market in the area, specifically concerning properties with unique features, like older homes with large gardens. I mentioned a hypothetical “friend” who was considering selling. It was vague, non-threatening.
A day passed. No reply. I felt a pang of disappointment, but also relief. Maybe she was too busy, or maybe she’d seen through my flimsy disguise.
Then, late on the second afternoon, an email arrived. Bethany’s reply was brief and formal, offering a brief phone consultation. No personal greeting, just a time and a number. It was cautious.
I called her the moment the clock hit the appointed time. My heart hammered against my ribs.
“Bethany Price,” she answered, her voice tight, almost clipped.
“Hi, Bethany, this is Lilly Chen,” I said, trying to sound calm and confident. “We met a few times at my father’s house.”
There was a beat of silence on the line. I could almost feel her tension through the phone. “Oh, Lilly. Yes. How can I help you?” Her voice was flat, devoid of any warmth.
“I emailed you about a hypothetical scenario,” I began, sticking to my script. “A friend of mine is considering a move, and I was just curious about the market for… well, for larger, unique properties around here. You know, like older homes with large gardens, maybe even some specific landscaping.”
I tried to keep my tone light, but I felt like I was walking on eggshells.
“Right,” Bethany said, her voice still cautious. “The market for those kinds of properties is… nuanced. It really depends on the specifics.”
“Of course,” I agreed. “My friend’s property is… quite old. It has some, uh, significant garden features, you could say. My friend was wondering if the current market favors a quick sale, or if there’s value in trying to highlight those unique aspects.”
Another pause. This one felt longer. I could hear her breathing, shallow and fast.
“Typically,” Bethany started, her words slow and deliberate, “for properties with significant land and… established features, a seller would want to emphasize those unique aspects. That’s where the value often lies. Buyers for such properties are usually looking for character, for a story.”
She sounded like she was reciting from a script, but there was an undercurrent of something else – a forced adherence to rules that felt wrong.
“But,” she continued, her voice dropping slightly, “sometimes, if the market is particularly slow, or if a property has… perceived liabilities, it might be advisable to present it as a ‘fixer-upper opportunity.’ A way to generate interest quickly, even if the initial valuation seems low.”
“Perceived liabilities?” I repeated, pushing subtly. “What kinds of liabilities would make a property with ‘established features’ seem like a ‘fixer-upper opportunity’?”
I knew she was talking about Bloomwood, about Randall Floyd’s appraisal. My gut churned.
“Things like… deferred maintenance,” Bethany replied, her voice now barely a whisper. “Or outdated infrastructure. Or even if parts of the property are… less aesthetic. It can scare off general buyers, you see. Even if the bones are good.”
“Less aesthetic parts of a property?” I asked, trying to sound confused rather than accusatory. “What does that even mean?”
She stammered slightly. “Well, for instance, if a section of a large garden property was converted to… say, temporary growing pods, and those pods weren’t up to the same aesthetic standard as the original structure. That could be seen as a liability, implying future investment is needed.”
My breath hitched. Temporary growing pods. Chloe and Marcus had *just* installed a few cheap, plastic-covered growing pods near the back of the conservatory, claiming it was “cost-effective modernization.” They had done it very recently, after Dad’s death, trying to prove I couldn’t maintain the original structures. This was exactly what they wanted Randall Floyd to focus on.
“So, Marcus asked you to focus on those things?” I ventured, letting a tiny sliver of directness into my voice.
The line went completely silent again. For a terrifying moment, I thought she would hang up.
Then, Bethany’s voice came back, strained and quiet. “Lilly, I… I can’t discuss client specifics.”
“But you just did,” I pointed out, my voice gentle but firm. “You described a situation that sounds exactly like Bloomwood. And you mentioned ‘temporary growing pods’ – something only Chloe and Marcus have done since Dad passed.”
She let out a shaky sigh. “Look, Lilly. Marcus just asked me to… test the waters. To see if there was any interest in the property, based on… a recent appraisal report. It’s not a formal listing. Just an informal market assessment.”
“And that appraisal report was Randall Floyd’s, wasn’t it?” I pressed, my heart pounding.
Another long silence. I waited, holding my breath.
“I… I’m not supposed to share details about specific appraisals,” she said, her voice tight with fear now. “It’s highly confidential.”
“Bethany,” I said, dropping the pretense entirely. “I know Chloe and Marcus are trying to take Bloomwood from me. I know they’re using that appraisal to say I’m not capable. They’ve filed a petition to have me sidelined. Are you helping them?”
Her voice was barely audible. “Lilly, please. I just do what I’m told. I have a job. My career is… everything to me right now.”
The desperation in her voice was palpable. It wasn’t just reluctance; it was genuine fear. She sounded trapped.
“He’s coercing you, isn’t he?” I asked softly. “Marcus is making you do this, even though you know it’s wrong.”
“I… I can’t,” she whispered. “I’m sorry, Lilly. I really am. But I can’t say anything more. I could lose everything. My partnership, my reputation… Marcus is very connected. He wouldn’t hesitate to ruin me.”
The line clicked. She had hung up.
I stood there, the receiver still pressed to my ear, listening to the dial tone. Bethany’s words echoed in my mind: “He wouldn’t hesitate to ruin me.” She wasn’t an unwitting accomplice in the sense that she didn’t know what she was doing. She was an *unwilling* one, caught between her ethics and her fear of Marcus. The low appraisal, the “testing the waters,” the focus on “liabilities” like cheap plastic pods – it was all part of Marcus’s calculated scheme to make Bloomwood look like a financial sinkhole. And Bethany, a young professional trying to make her way, was trapped in the middle. How could I help her, when she was so clearly terrified to speak up? How could I make her see that protecting her conscience was more important than protecting a job built on lies? I knew I needed her help, but I also knew I couldn’t force her. It would have to be her choice.
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