Chapter 3: What She Wrote on the Second Page
My fingers found the fold in the second page.
The sheriff took one step closer.
"You should read it here," he said.
"In front of me."
I didn't argue.
I unfolded it.
Mrs.
Higgins' handwriting was shakier on this page.
Like she'd written it fast.
Like she'd been afraid.
*"My son Douglas has been trying to force me to sign the house over to him for two years.
I have refused every time.
Last week he told me that if I didn't sign before the end of the month, I would regret it.
I am 82 years old.
I know what that means.*
*"I am leaving this house to you.
Not because I know you well.
Because I watched you today.
You were 34 weeks pregnant, in that heat, and you helped me anyway.
You didn't ask for anything.
You didn't even look back.*
*"The documents are already with my attorney, Gerald Marsh.
His number is at the bottom of this page.
The deed transfer is complete.
The house is yours.*
*"Take care of yourself.
Take care of that baby.
And don't let Douglas take what isn't his."*
I couldn't breathe.
"She left me her house," I whispered.
The sheriff didn't look surprised.
"Mr.
Higgins — Douglas — says the document is fraudulent.
He's already filed a challenge."
"He filed it this morning?
She was only found this morning—"
"He had paperwork ready," the sheriff said.
"Which is part of why we're here."
I looked up.
"You think I had something to do with this."
He held my gaze for a long moment.
"I think you need an attorney."
My hand moved to my stomach without thinking.
The baby kicked.
Hard.
Like she knew.
"Can I keep the letter?" I asked.
"That's evidence right now," he said.
"But I'll make sure you get a copy."
He turned toward his car, then stopped.
"One more thing." He didn't look back at me.
"Douglas Higgins has a history with this department.
I'm not going to tell you what kind.
But I'd suggest you lock your doors tonight."
He got in the car.
I stood at the end of my driveway in the heat, holding an empty envelope, staring at the house next door.
It had white shutters.
A porch swing.
A garden that had gone dry.
Mrs.
Higgins had watered that garden every morning for forty years.
Her neighbor across the street had told me that once, when I first moved in.
I hadn't even known her first name until I read the top of the letter.
Eleanor.
Her name was Eleanor.
I went inside and sat at my kitchen table and didn't move for a long time.
Then I found the attorney's number at the bottom of the page — I'd memorized it before the sheriff took the letter — and I dialed.
It rang twice.
"Marsh Law," a woman answered.
"My name is Sarah Collier," I said.
"I think Eleanor Higgins left me her house.
And I think her son is going to try to take it."
A pause.
"Ms.
Collier," the woman said carefully, "Mr.
Marsh has been expecting your call.
Can you come in today?"
My hand tightened on the phone.
Outside, a car rolled slowly past my window.
It didn't stop.
But it didn't speed up either.
I watched it until it turned the corner.
May you like
"Yes," I said.
"I can come in today."
