Grant disappeared from the door.
A moment later, metal scraped against metal near the side of the house.
Owen remained on the front step, watching me through the glass.
Philip stood several feet behind him, staring toward the road.
I rose and picked up my phone.
There was no signal.
Michael’s voice softened.
“The orchids are for you.
I found your old sketchbook in the attic after your surgery.
You once told Sophie that orchids survive because they adapt without losing what they are.
I started painting them during the lawsuit.
I planned to bring you here when it was over.
I thought I would finally show you everything and ask whether we should sell the place or make something better from it.”
I looked toward the entrance hall.
The flowers climbing the walls were not decorations.
They were years of confession, painted one petal at a time because Michael had not been brave enough to speak.
A heavy crash came from the side corridor.
The security alarm began to pulse—not a deafening siren, but a low, relentless tone.
Grant had forced a side door.
Owen rushed away from the front entrance to join him.
Philip remained outside.
“Naomi,” he called through the glass.
His voice shook.
“I didn’t know they were coming inside.”
I stared at him.
“Your signature is in this folder.”
He lowered his eyes.
“I know.”
Footsteps entered the mansion.
Grant’s voice echoed from the corridor.
“Put the file down.”
He appeared at the library entrance with Owen behind him.
Splinters clung to the shoulder of his expensive coat where he had forced the old wooden door.
Up close, the resemblance to Michael was even more painful.
Grant saw the blue folder in my hands and smiled as if he had already recovered control.
“You don’t understand what you’re reading.”
“I understand my husband owned this house.”
“Our mother intended it for the family.”
“She wrote a will.”
“She was ill.”
“Then challenge it in court.”
Owen laughed once, without humor.
“You think Daniel Price hasn’t arranged the court already?”
Grant silenced him with a look.
That small reaction told me more than the papers had.
They had challenged the will.
And lost.
Grant approached slowly.
“Michael always needed someone to rescue him.
First our mother.
Then Daniel.
Then you.”
He looked around at the orchids with contempt.
“He wasted years painting flowers while the rest of us kept this place alive.”
The laptop continued playing behind me.
“If Grant enters the house,” Michael said, “do not let him persuade you that cruelty is the same as strength.”
