Chapter 3 - The Threat and the Deed
My pulse spiked, but years of living with Monica had taught me one vital rule: never let them see you bleed.
"My mother kept her important personal items in a fireproof cedar box," I said, keeping my voice cold and level. "Which is currently sitting on my desk inside."
Dylan’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second, but he quickly recovered. "Not everything made it into that box, sis. This one was tucked inside the old cedar trunk in the attic. Mom checked the dates—it covers the last two years before your mother died. It has personal letters inside, too."
He was bluffing. Or was he? My mother had been a passionate writer, and when her illness took over during her final months, she spent hours writing in various journals. The thought of Monica holding her final words hostage sent a flash of pure anger through my veins.
"Extortion is a felony in North Carolina, Dylan," I warned, stepping off the porch deck to stand at eye level with him. "If Monica destroys property that belongs to my mother’s estate, I won't just take forty percent of the house. I will file criminal charges."
Dylan threw his hands up in mock surrender. "Hey, don't shoot the messenger. I’m just telling you what Mom said. Drop the court partition, accept a smaller payout—say, fifty grand over ten years—and you get the diary back. Otherwise... poof."
He turned on his heel, sauntered back to his Mustang, and drove off down the mountain, leaving a cloud of dust behind.
Ten minutes later, I was on the phone with Sarah Vance.
"Can they actually do that?" I asked, my voice tight.
"Legally? Absolutely not. It’s extortion and destruction of estate assets," Sarah explained. "Practically? If they burn it, it’s gone forever, regardless of whether a judge sends Monica to jail later. We need to act strategically."
"What do you suggest?"
"We file an emergency ex parte motion for a temporary restraining order to preserve estate property," Sarah said smoothly. "And we attach a Sheriff's escort to inspect the premises and secure any personal belongings left behind. If she touches that diary once the order is served, she faces immediate contempt of court."
While Sarah prepared the legal filings, I spent the rest of the night reviewing my mother’s financial records from five years ago. My mother had been meticulous. As I searched through scanned PDFs of old bank statements on my laptop, I stumbled across a document I had overlooked during the grief of her passing.
It was an agreement signed by Richard and my mother two years before her death. It wasn't a standard prenuptial agreement; it was a property agreement regarding the house.
According to the clause on page four, if Richard ever remarried, his share of the property's appreciation would be capped at twenty percent, with the remainder reverting automatically to my mother's designated heir—me.
My heart hammered against my ribs.
Richard had married Monica three years ago. If this agreement was legally binding, Richard didn't own sixty percent of the house’s current market value. His share was significantly smaller, and mine was much larger.
The $186,000 appraisal buyout I had demanded? That wasn't just my share. That was a conservative estimate. Under this forgotten agreement, Richard actually owed me closer to $270,000.
I emailed the document to Sarah immediately with the subject line: Urgent - Check Page 4.
The next morning at 9:00 AM, two county sheriff deputies pulled up to my father’s driveway, accompanied by Sarah Vance carrying a freshly stamped court order.
I watched from Sarah's car across the street.
Monica came to the front door wearing her bathrobe, holding a coffee mug. When the deputy presented the restraining order and announced they were there to secure estate property, her face transformed from smug confidence to sheer terror.
Richard emerged behind her, pale and disheveled.
"What is the meaning of this?" Richard yelled. "This is harassment!"
"Mr. Bennett," Deputy Miller said calmly, "we are executing a court order to search for and secure personal estate records belonging to Eleanor Bennett, including any diaries or personal correspondence located in the attic or living areas. Please step aside."
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Monica looked frantically at Richard, her hand trembling so hard her coffee spilled onto the porch tiles.
She wasn't terrified because of the diary. She was terrified because of what else was hiding in that house.
