Chapter 7: The Threat She Made
I showed David the texts before he left.
He stood in the doorway, reading both messages on my phone, his expression neutral in the way that told me he was more concerned than he looked.
"Do you have any idea who's sending these?"
"No."
"Has anyone else been in contact with you since this started?
Anyone outside the family?"
I thought about it.
"No."
He handed the phone back.
"Forward both messages to me.
And if another one comes, don't respond — just forward it." He paused.
"I'm going to make some calls this afternoon.
Rhonda mentioned speaking to a judge.
That's worth looking into."
After he left, Patrice helped me clear the water glasses from the table.
It was a small thing, but she did it without being asked, carrying them to the kitchen sink, rinsing them, setting them on the drying rack.
We didn't talk much.
There wasn't a great deal to say.
At the door she stopped.
"She has a friend," Patrice said.
"A man named Curtis Briggs.
He's a property developer.
She's been talking to him about this house for at least two years." She looked at me steadily.
"I don't know what she promised him.
But I think you should know he exists."
"Thank you, Patrice."
She nodded once and left.
I stood in the hallway for a long time after the door closed.
Then I went to Michael's desk in the study — the small rolltop he'd had since before we met, the one I still hadn't been able to open without feeling the loss of him fresh again — and I sat down and opened it.
His files were organized the way Michael organized everything: carefully, quietly, without making a show of it.
Twelve years of property tax receipts.
Utility records.
The original purchase documents from when his father had bought the house in 1987.
Insurance policies.
And near the back, in a hanging file labeled simply *R*, a folder.
Inside were printed emails.
Eleven of them, spanning three years.
Between Michael and Rhonda.
I read them in order.
The first few were ordinary enough — family logistics, a disagreement about their mother's medical care.
But by the fourth email, the tone had shifted.
Rhonda was asking about the house.
Asking what Michael intended to do with it.
Whether he had a will.
Whether Laura was named in it.
Michael's replies were careful and brief.
By the eighth email, Rhonda had stopped being careful.
*If you won't deal with this now, I'll deal with it after.
You know I will.
Curtis has already looked at the lot.
The location alone is worth twice what you think.
Don't be sentimental about it.*
Michael's reply was one sentence.
*This house belongs to Laura.
It always has.
Stop writing to me about this.*
The final email in the folder was from Rhonda.
Dated four months before Michael d*ed.
*You're making a mistake.
She's not family.
We are.
When the time comes, we'll do what's right for the family.
You won't be able to stop us.*
I set the folder on the desk.
My phone rang.
Unknown number — not the same one as the texts.
I answered.
"Mrs.
Calloway." A man's voice, smooth and unhurried.
"My name is Curtis Briggs.
I think it's time we had a conversation."
My hand tightened on the phone.
"How did you get this number?"
"Rhonda gave it to me.
I want you to know I'm not your enemy here.
I'm a businessman.
I make problems go away.
Rhonda tells me there's a legal situation that's become complicated, and I'd like to propose something that makes it simpler for everyone."
"I'm listening," I said, because I wanted to hear what he would say.
"I'll offer you fair market value for the property.
Cash.
Thirty-day close.
You walk away with enough to start over somewhere comfortable, and everyone moves on." A pause.
"Rhonda gets a finder's fee.
You get a clean exit.
No more lawyers, no more letters, no more stress."
"And what do you get?"
"A piece of land I've had my eye on for two years." His voice stayed smooth.
"This doesn't have to be a fight, Mrs.
Calloway."
"Mr.
Briggs," I said.
"The deed to this property is being updated this week.
It will show clear, sole ownership in my name.
There is nothing to buy from Rhonda because Rhonda has nothing to sell.
If you've been told otherwise, you've been misled."
A silence.
"I'd think carefully before —"
"Goodbye, Mr.
Briggs."
I hung up.
My heart was going fast but my hand was steady.
I picked up the folder of emails and took a photograph of each one.
Then I called David.
May you like
"I found something else," I said.
"And Rhonda's developer just called me directly."
