The phone rang at exactly 10:47 p.m. as it had every night for the past three months. I was sitting in my late husband’s armchair, the one by the window overlooking the apple orchard that stretched behind our Vermont farmhouse. The trees were bare now, skeletal fingers reaching toward a November sky. I’d been holding Robert’s reading glasses, turning them over in my hands, wondering why I still kept them on the side table after two years.
«Hello, Albert,» I said, not bothering to check the caller ID. My son’s punctuality was almost pathological.
«Mom.» His voice came through tight, controlled. «Are you alone?»
The question. Always the same question.
I glanced around the living room. The faded floral sofa Robert and I had bought 30 years ago. The grandfather clock that had belonged to my mother. The wedding photo on the mantle where we both looked impossibly young.
The house felt enormous in its emptiness. Every room echoing with the absence of the man who’d filled them with his laugh, his presence, his life.
«Yes,» I said. «I’m alone.»
The line went dead. I stared at the phone in my hand, listening to the silence that followed.
This was new. Usually when I said yes, Albert would launch into a 15-minute monologue about proper security, about keeping doors locked, about the dangers of rural isolation for a woman my age. He’d inherited his father’s concern, but none of his warmth.
Tonight, just silence and a disconnected call. I set the phone down, my hand trembling slightly. At 63, I’d learned to trust my instincts. And right now they were screaming that something was wrong.
The house settled around me with its familiar creaks and groans. I’d lived here for 40 years, raised Albert within these walls, buried my husband from the front parlor. I knew every sound, every draft, every peculiarity, which is why I noticed immediately when the kitchen door handle turned.
I’d locked it. I always locked it after dinner.
My breath caught in my throat. I remained perfectly still in the armchair, partially hidden from the kitchen’s view by the wide doorframe. Through the gap, I could see a shadow moving across the mudroom window. Someone was trying to get in.
My mind raced. The phone was on the side table. I could call 911, but the nearest sheriff’s deputy was 20 minutes away on a good night.
The gun Robert had kept was locked in the bedroom safe, and I’d never learned the combination. He’d always meant to teach me, but there was always tomorrow. Until there wasn’t.
The handle stopped moving. Silence stretched out, thick and suffocating. Then I heard footsteps retreating across the gravel driveway.
I waited five full minutes before moving, my heart hammering against my ribs. When I finally stood, my legs felt weak. I crept to the kitchen window and peered out through the curtain.
Nothing. Just darkness and the distant security light by the barn. But on the kitchen table, I saw something that hadn’t been there before. A white envelope, unsealed, sitting in the exact center of the table.
My hands shook as I approached it. The envelope was expensive cardstock, the kind used for wedding invitations or formal announcements. There was no name on it, no address, no marking of any kind.
I should have called the police. That’s what a sensible person would do. But something stopped me. Maybe it was the 40 years of self-reliance that farm life demands.
Or maybe it was the memory of Albert’s voice on the phone. That strange urgency in his question. «Are you alone?»
I opened the envelope. Inside was a single photograph, old and slightly faded. It showed this house. My house.
But from at least 30 years ago, judging by the young apple trees and the original barn that had burned down in 1998. Standing in front of the house were four people.
Robert, looking handsome and young in his work clothes. Myself, barely 30, holding baby Albert. And two people I didn’t recognize: a tall man with dark hair and a woman with a severe expression.
On the back, in handwriting I didn’t know, was written, «The Partnership, 1992. Some debts never expire.»
My mouth went dry. 1992. The year we bought this farm. The year Robert had come home one day with the down payment in cash, telling me his uncle had died and left him an inheritance.
I’d never questioned it. We’d been struggling, working three jobs between us, dreaming of land of our own. The money had seemed like a miracle.
But Robert had been an only child, and both his parents had been only children too. He’d had no uncle.
I turned the photograph over again, studying the strangers’ faces. The man had his hand on Robert’s shoulder in a way that seemed possessive. Proprietary. The woman was looking at me with an expression I could now recognize as something close to contempt.
Who were these people? And why was someone leaving me this photograph now, two years after Robert’s death?
The phone rang again. I nearly dropped the photograph. This time it wasn’t Albert. The number was blocked.
«Hello?» My voice came out stronger than I felt.
«Mrs. Diane Hartwell?» A man’s voice, smooth and educated, with the faintest trace of a Boston accent.
«Yes.»
«My name is James Thornton. I’m an attorney. I apologize for the late hour, but I’ve been trying to reach you for some time. Your son has been intercepting my calls.»
My grip tightened on the phone. «What are you talking about?»
«I represent the estate of Catherine and William Morse. They passed away six months ago in a car accident in Maine. You’re named in their will, Mrs. Hartwell. Named quite prominently, in fact.»
The room tilted slightly. I sat down hard in the nearest chair. «I don’t know anyone by those names.»
«Perhaps not by name,» Thornton said carefully, «but I believe you knew them thirty-three years ago, when you and your late husband acquired your property.»
I looked down at the photograph in my hand, at the severe-looking woman and the tall man with his possessive grip on Robert’s shoulder. «What do they want?» I whispered.
«Want, Mrs. Hartwell? They’re dead. But they’ve left you something. Something your son is very eager to prevent you from receiving. Tell me, has he been calling you every night, asking if you’re alone?»
My blood turned to ice. «How do you know that?»
«Because he’s been in my office three times, trying to gain power of attorney over your affairs. He claims you’re experiencing cognitive decline, that you’re not competent to handle your own business. He’s been quite… insistent.»
The words hit me like physical blows. Albert, my son, trying to declare me incompetent? «That’s absurd,» I said. But my voice shook.
«I’m perfectly capable.»
«I know you are. Which is why I needed to reach you directly. Mrs. Hartwell, the Morses left you a document, a contract, signed by your husband in 1992, and a letter explaining everything.»
«But I need to give these to you in person, and I need to do it before your son realizes we’ve made contact.»
«What kind of contract?»
«The kind that makes you a very wealthy woman, and the kind that explains why someone might want to keep you isolated and confused. Mrs. Hartwell, are you truly alone in that house?»
I thought about the envelope on the table, the person who’d tried the door. «I don’t know anymore,» I said honestly.
«Listen to me carefully. Don’t tell anyone about this call. Not your son, not anyone. I’m driving up from Boston now. I can be there by 1:00 a.m. Can you stay awake? Can you stay safe?»
I looked around my kitchen, the room where I’d made 40 years of breakfasts, where I’d nursed Albert through childhood illnesses, where Robert and I had planned our future over countless cups of coffee. It suddenly felt like foreign territory, full of shadows and secrets.
«Mrs. Hartwell?» Thornton’s voice was urgent. «Are you there?»
«I’m here,» I said. «I’ll be waiting.»
«Keep your doors locked. If anyone comes to the door before I arrive, even if it’s your son, don’t let them in. Do you understand?»
«Yes.»
«Good. I’ll see you soon.»
He hung up. I sat in the kitchen for a long moment, staring at the photograph. «The Partnership. 1992. Some debts never expire.»
Robert had lied to me. Albert was trying to have me declared incompetent. Someone had tried to enter my house. And two strangers I’d never heard of had died and left me… what? Money? Property? Secrets?
The grandfather clock in the living room chimed eleven. I had two hours before Thornton arrived. Two hours to figure out what I was dealing with. To decide if I could trust him. To protect myself from whatever was coming.
I stood and walked to Robert’s study, the one room in the house I’d barely touched since his death. His desk was exactly as he’d left it. Neat, organized, everything in its place.
Robert had been meticulous. Almost obsessively so. I started opening drawers.
In the third one down, hidden beneath a stack of old farm equipment manuals, I found another envelope. Same expensive cardstock. Same unmarked surface.
Inside was a key. Old, brass, the kind that might open a safe deposit box. And a note in Robert’s handwriting.
«Diane, if you’re reading this, I’m gone. I’m sorry. For everything. The key opens box 247 at First National in Burlington. Go alone. Tell no one. Especially not Albert. He doesn’t understand. He can’t understand. Some secrets are meant to protect, not harm. I loved you. Always. R.»
My hands trembled as I held the note. Robert had known something. Had left me a way to find out what.
The phone rang again. Albert. Right on schedule for his second attempt. This time, when he asked, «Are you alone?» I made a decision that would change everything.
«No,» I lied. «Sheriff’s deputy stopped by. He’s still here. Checking the perimeter. Thought he saw someone in the orchard.»
The silence on the other end was longer this time. When Albert spoke again, his voice was different. Harder. Colder.
«That’s good, Mom. That’s real good. You stay safe tonight. I’ll come by tomorrow morning. First thing.»
«We need to talk.»
«About what?»
«About the future. About what’s best for you. Sleep well, Mom.»
He hung up before I could respond. I stared at the phone. At the key. At the photograph. Tomorrow morning. He’d said it like a threat.
But tonight? I had two hours. Two hours to learn the truth.
And for the first time in months, maybe years, I felt something I hadn’t expected. I felt ready to fight.
I had 90 minutes before Thornton arrived. 90 minutes to search a house full of 40 years of accumulated life for answers my husband had deliberately hidden.
I started in Robert’s study, working methodically through every drawer. Every file folder. Every book on the shelves. Farm records. Tax returns. Equipment receipts.
