I drew her close against me and rose to my feet.

Margaret Hale had been a solicitor for thirty-one years, and she had the kind of stillness that came from having heard everything at least twice.

She met me the following morning at her office above a chemist's on the high street, with a pot of tea already on the table and a file folder that was thicker than I expected.

"Sit down," she said.

"I want to show you something before we discuss strategy."

Sophie was with my neighbor, Jean, who had taken one look at my face the night before and said leave her with me as long as you need.

I sat down across from Margaret and folded my hands on the table.

Margaret opened the folder and turned it toward me.

"This is the original deed," she said.

"Registered in your mother's name — Dorothy Anne Whitfield — in 1987.

The property has never been formally transferred.

There is no instrument of sale, no gift deed, no court order." She set a finger on a second document.

"This is what Richard filed with the estate when your mother passed.

He listed the property as a jointly held family asset with disputed ownership, which effectively froze it during probate."

"He froze it."

"He created enough legal ambiguity to delay any challenge for years.

It's not uncommon.

It requires someone with access to the estate paperwork and enough legal knowledge to know which forms to file." She looked at me steadily.

"Or someone advising them."

"Daniel," I said.

"Your brother is a property solicitor."

I had known that.

I had known that for twenty years.

I had never once connected it to this.

"How long would it take to resolve?" I asked.

"If we can establish that the freeze was filed in bad faith — and if we have a witness who can testify to the original intent of the deceased — we could move for an emergency injunction within the week.

That would prevent any further action on the property while the case is heard." Margaret paused.

"You mentioned Richard's wife."

"Caroline."

"Has she agreed to speak with me?"

"Not yet.

But she will."

Margaret studied me for a moment.

"What makes you certain?"

I thought about the way Caroline had set her napkin on the table.

That single, deliberate gesture.

The way she had said I think I'm finished with that.

"Because she's been carrying it longer than I have," I said.

Margaret nodded slowly and made a note.

"There's one more thing," she said.

She turned to the back of the folder and drew out a single page.

"This was filed eight months ago.

A planning application.

Richard applied for permission to demolish the existing structure and develop the land into four residential units."

The room went very quiet.

"He was going to tear it down," I said.

"The application is still pending.

Which means if we do not move quickly, and if the planning authority approves before we establish your claim—"

"He wins."

"The house would be gone," Margaret said.

"Yes."

I stared at the planning document.

My mother had planted roses along the south wall.

She had painted the kitchen yellow because she said it made winter mornings bearable.

She had kept a tin of biscuits on the second shelf of the pantry for thirty years, always the same brand, always in the same place.

"File the injunction," I said.

"I'll need Caroline's contact details as soon as possible."

"I'll have them to you by this afternoon."

Margaret closed the folder.

"Emma.

I want to be honest with you.

Richard will not accept this quietly.

The moment that injunction lands, he will respond.

He has money, he has legal contacts, and he has had three years to prepare for the possibility that you might find out."

"I know."

"Are you prepared for what that looks like?"

I thought about Sophie asleep against my shoulder in that ruined dining room.

I thought about my mother's voice on the phone three weeks before she passed, saying Emma, there are things I should have told you sooner, and me saying Mum, there's time, we have time.

We hadn't had time.

"Yes," I said.

"I'm prepared."

My phone buzzed on the table between us.

A message from an unknown number.

*You should have stayed quiet.

There are things about your mother you don't want to become public.

Think about your daughter.*

I turned the phone so Margaret could read it.

She looked at it for a long moment.

Then she looked at me.

"Save that," she said.