I looked at Scott. He had not turned around.
Part of me wanted an apology. Not because it would fix anything, but because some wounded part of me still wanted proof that he understood the size of what he had broken.
When he finally spoke, his voice was rough.
“Grandma trusted you more than me.”
No one answered.
He turned then, and his eyes found mine.
“I hated that,” he said. “Even before I knew about the will. She’d ask about you. She’d remember things you said. She sent you that cookbook.” He laughed once, sadder than angry. “I thought she was judging me through you.”
“Maybe she was hoping you’d become better around me,” I said softly.
That landed.
Scott looked down.
For the first time, I did not feel responsible for softening the moment for him.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
The words came out bare. No flowers. No strategy. No audience to impress.
I did not rush to accept them. I let them exist between us, imperfect and late.
“I believe you’re sorry right now,” I said. “But I’m not the person who can make that enough for you.”
His face crumpled slightly, then he nodded.
It was not reconciliation. It was not forgiveness wrapped in music. It was only a door closing gently instead of slamming, and somehow that felt stronger.
Margaret touched my arm. “Avery, we should secure these documents and leave before the weather worsens.”
We gathered everything carefully. The lockbox. Kayla’s folder. Evelyn’s letters. The flash drive.
At the front door, Kayla paused beside me.
“I don’t know what happens with Scott,” she said, voice low. “Or with my father. But I’m going to tell the truth.”
I looked at her, remembering the woman laughing in the grocery store, then seeing the woman before me now, frightened but choosing differently.
“Then start there,” I said.
She nodded, tears shining again. “I will.”
Outside, the rain had softened the gravel, and the lake had vanished into mist. Scott walked ahead alone, no longer claiming the house with his posture. Kayla followed at a distance.
Jerome locked the door behind us.
As I stepped off the porch, Margaret’s phone rang.
She glanced at the screen and stopped walking.
All color drained from her face.
“What is it?” Jerome asked.
Margaret looked at me, then at the blue lockbox in his hands.
“That was my office,” she said. “They ran a preliminary search for Lena Marisol Reyes.”
My heart began to pound.
“And?”
Margaret swallowed.
“Lena Reyes died five years ago,” she said. “But she had a daughter.”
The rain tapped softly against the trees.
Margaret’s voice dropped almost to a whisper.
