If you leave that stray cat in your house, Martha, you'll be smelling her dead owner till spring, the deputy told me on the porch.
I clutched the wooden shim in my pocket, the sharp edges digging into my thigh. The evidence of Julian’s true depravity burned there, a constant reminder. Justice for Clara. Not just the land. Justice for her murder.
Back at my cabin, the woodstove was a faint whisper of heat. Barnaby was curled up, a ball of orange fur, by the cold hearth. I was shivering uncontrollably, my feet aching from the cold. But a fierce resolve had replaced the despair.
Then, a new sound. The crunch of tires on my frozen driveway.
A black SUV, sleek and out of place in my rustic surroundings, pulled up beside my cabin. It was Julian Kross. He emerged, a tall, impeccably dressed figure, his tailored coat a stark contrast to my worn layers. He looked entirely too comfortable, too warm.
He walked with an arrogant swagger towards my door, a thin attaché case in one hand.
I met him on the porch, my expression carefully neutral. The wind picked up, whipping strands of hair across my face.
“Martha,” he said, a patronizing smile playing on his lips. “Still here? I expected you’d have come to your senses by now.”
“What do you want, Julian?” I asked, my voice flat.
He opened his attaché case, pulling out a sheaf of papers and a crisp, white cashier’s check. He held them out to me.
“A simple resolution,” he purred, his voice smooth and condescending. “A relocation payment. Fifteen thousand dollars. All yours, if you sign away any claim to Clara Sallow’s estate. And your own property, for good measure.”
My eyes flicked to the check. Fifteen thousand dollars. A pittance for what he stood to gain.
“You really think I’ll take your blood money?” I asked, a bitter taste in my mouth.
He chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. “Oh, you’ll take it, Martha. Or you’ll freeze. You’ve got no power, no heat, no water. No one in town will sell you so much as a loaf of bread. Deputy Croft isn’t going to save you. You’re alone. And you’re old.”
He paused, letting his words sink in. “Look at you. You can barely stand. You’re frail. You’ll be a block of ice within forty-eight hours, maybe less. And then the land is mine anyway. This is a courtesy, Martha. A humane gesture.”
He made a show of checking his expensive watch. “Twenty-four hours. Sign the contract, take the money, and be gone by this time tomorrow. Or suffer the consequences.”
He held out the contract, the pen clipped to it glinting in the faint light. He expected me to crumble, to surrender. He saw a weak, old woman, desperate and outmatched.
But I saw the man who had murdered my sister. And I had a piece of wood in my pocket that proved it.
I looked him dead in the eye, ignoring the icy tremor starting in my bones. “You can keep your money, Julian. You won’t be getting this land.”
His smile vanished. His face hardened, the mask of pleasant condescension slipping away to reveal the cold, ruthless man beneath.
“You really are a fool, Martha,” he spat. “A stubborn, senile old fool. This isn’t a game. You’ve got no cards to play.”
He turned on his heel and walked back to his SUV, the heavy door slamming shut with a final, ominous thud. The engine roared, and he backed out of my driveway, leaving me standing in the deepening twilight, the cold wind a sharp reminder of his threat.
Forty-eight hours. He thought he had won. He didn’t know the Gables. He didn’t know about archives.
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