“At the country house.”
I slowly put the plate down.
“What country house?”
“The one with Camille.”
There it was again.
I knelt beside her.
“Sophie, you told me you picked a bedroom there.”
“Yep.”
“What does it look like?”
She grinned.
“Purple wall.”
“You already painted it?”
“Not yet. Camille had little cards.”
“Paint samples?”
“Yeah!”
She leaned closer.
“Daddy said mine gets a window where I can see the barn.”
I couldn’t feel my fingertips.
“Did he tell you who is going to live in that house?”
Sophie hesitated.
Then she covered her mouth dramatically.
“I’m not supposed to say.”
“Why?”
“It’s a surprise.”
My heart broke at the innocence in her voice.
Marcus had involved his own daughter.
He had shown her a bedroom.
He had instructed her to hide it from me.
Whatever explanation I had been trying to preserve disappeared.
That night, I opened an old storage box beneath my desk.
Inside was the notebook where I had tracked my Blue Ridge Fund for almost a decade.
The first entry was embarrassingly small.
$75.
Then $110.
Then $200.
Over the years, the numbers grew.
I remembered every sacrifice behind them.
Vacations I didn’t take.
Cars I didn’t upgrade.
Apartments I didn’t move into.
Restaurants I skipped.
I flipped to the last page.
A single line.
TRANSFER TO HALE DESIGN & BUILD — $176,400
Below it, in my own handwriting:
We’re building something together now.
I stared at those words until they became blurry.
Then I called Tessa.
“I’m going back.”
“To the property?”
“Yes.”
“Elena—”
“I need proof.”
“You already followed him.”
“I need to know what he’s doing with that house.”
Tessa exhaled.
“I’m coming with you.”
The following Saturday, I told Marcus that Tessa and I were spending the evening downtown.
“Have fun,” he said.
He kissed my forehead.
That kiss nearly made me furious.
An hour later, Tessa and I were walking along the edge of the rural property.
The farmhouse looked different in the dark.
Work lights glowed near one side.
Construction equipment stood beside the barn.
Fresh fence posts divided the land into new paddocks.
“Elena,” Tessa whispered, “we have the address. We know the transfers. We should leave.”
Then I noticed a section of temporary plastic covering an unfinished doorway.
Through it, I could see part of the interior.
A kitchen.
White oak flooring.
