A year had passed since her husbands death. That morning, a delayed email arrived with just one line: *”Dont trust my mother. Dig under the old apple tree.”*
The ping from her laptop made Veronica flinch.
Exactly one year. To the minute. A year since *that* phone call had split her life in two.
On the screen, a single notification glowed: *”Scheduled delivery. From: Christopher Whitmore.”*
Her fingers froze. That name had no business appearing there. It felt like some cruel, twisted joke.
With trembling hands, she opened it. Almost no textjust one sentence, seared into her mind like a brand:
*”Nikki, if youre reading this, its real. Dont believe a word my mother says. Look under the old apple tree in the garden. She knows everything.”*
A sharp knock at the door startled her like a gunshot. There she stood. Her mother-in-law, Isolde Whitmore. A mask of sorrow plastered on her face, a Tupperware container in hand.
“Veronica, love,” she cooed, syrup-thick with false sympathy. “I thought youd be alone today. Came to keep you company.”
She bustled into the kitchen without waiting, plonking the container on the table. Veronica closed the door silently, the laptop burning a hole in her back.
“Now, heres what Ive decided,” Isolde began, scanning the kitchen like an estate agent. “We must sell the cottage.”
Veronica stiffened. *Their* cottage. Where the old apple tree stood.
“Sell it?” Her voice sounded alien. “Why?”
“Whats the point now?” Isolde flung her hands up theatrically. “Its just a burden for you. And I could use the extra pension. Besides, its too painfuleverything there reminds me of Christopher.”
Her words were logical, reasonable. But Veronica saw no grieving motheronly a vulture circling. Christophers warning echoed in her skull.
“Ive already got a buyer,” Isolde added lightly. “Solid chap. Good price, but he wont wait. Cash in hand.”
“I… I need time to think,” Veronica choked out.
Isoldes face shifted. The mask slipped, revealing cold steel beneath.
“Think? Whats there to think about? Letting our familys nest rot? Letting strangers pick it apart?”
She stepped closer, eyes drilling into Veronica.
“The papers are ready. Ten tomorrow at the solicitors. Just sign. Dont make an old woman beg.”
It wasnt a request. It was an ultimatum. And suddenly, with crystalline clarity, Veronica understood: Christopher had sent that message to warn her.
Hed known. Known something about his mother. About that cottage.
“Fine,” she whispered, her insides turning to ice. “Ill come.”
Isoldes triumphant smirk vanished beneath her grieving-dove act. “Thats my girl. Time to move on, dear.”
Once the door shut, Veronica grabbed the keychain hanging by the doora single key with a tiny apple charm. The cottage key. Christophers secret.
She barely slept that night, his words and Isoldes threats tangling into a sleepless knot. By six, her car was speeding down empty lanes, dawn mist clinging to hedgerows.
Her phone rang at nine sharp. Isolde. She declined the call. A text followed: *”Where are you? Were waiting.”*
No reply.
The cottage greeted her with boarded windows and the damp scent of decaying leaves. Every corner whispered of Christopherthe bench hed built, the path to the river where theyd walked. In the shed, she found a rusty but sturdy spade.
The gnarled apple tree hunched at the gardens far edge, branches clawing at the gray sky. Veronica drove the spade into the earth.
Digging was brutal. Roots fought back; stones blunted the blade. Her phone buzzed again. This time, she answered.
“Veronica, what game are you playing?” Isoldes voice was arctic, all pretense of warmth gone. “The solicitor wont wait forever.”
“Im not coming.”
“*What?* Ive spent *months* arranging this!”
Veronica kept digging, her silence louder than words.
“Youll regret this, girl. Deeply.”
A click.
The threat fueled her. She dug like a woman possessed, dirt caking her nails. Then*clang.* Metal on metal.
She fell to her knees, scrabbling at the soil. A small steel box, wrapped in plastic. No lock, just a simple latch.
Her pulse roared in her ears as she lifted the lid.
Inside: a folder of documents, sealed envelopes. The thickest bore Christophers handwriting: *”For Nikki.”*
She tore it open. Not just wordstheir entire life with Isolde, seen through his eyes. Years of manipulation, forged signatures, secret loans.
*”…she made me take out loans in my name, said it was for her treatment. I just found out the money bought her a flat she rents out…”*
*”…she forged my signature on the power of attorney. Im scared, Nikki. If anything happens to me, dont trust her. The proof is here…”*
Bank statements, contracts, a copy of a will shed never seenleaving everything to her.
The pieces slammed together. Isoldes rush to sell. The ultimatum. Shed been trying to erase the one place holding evidence against her.
A rustle. Veronica turned.
Isolde stood at the garden gate, her face stripped of pretense. Only cold calculation remained.
“I knew youd come,” she said softly. “Give me the box, Veronica. Well part as friends.”
Veronica stood, mud-streaked and defiant, clutching the metal case.
“No, Isolde. We wont.”
First time shed ever used her name. Not *”Mum,”* as Christopher had begged. It landed like a slap.
Isoldes lips twisted. “Did those papers make you brave? Christopher thought he could defy me too. Poor boy. Always too soft.”
She stepped closer, voice dropping to a whisper.
“He found out about the forgery. Started making threats. So I… *helped* him see sense.”
The word *”helped”* hung like poison.
And just like that, Veronicas fear burned away. Years of swallowed insults, of bending to this woman, condensed into one white-hot point.
*Enough.*
“I knew youd follow me,” she said calmly, pulling out her phone. “So while you were walking up, I took photos. Sent them to our solicitor. Frauds his *favorite* charge.”
Isoldes confidence flickered. “What solicitor?”
“Christophers. He was *very* interested in your buyer and that revoked power of attorney.”
Veronica stepped forward now, closing the gap.
“Oh, and” She tapped her screen. Isoldes own voice crackled out: *”…had to… help him…”*
The mask crumbled. Rage and fear twisted Isoldes face. She stared at Veronica like shed never seen her before.
“You” she hissed.
“Game over,” Veronica said. “Leave now, vanish from my life, or I press send and this goes to the police. Choose.”
For a second, Isolde tried to rally. Drew herself up, haughty.
“Youre *nothing*. Youll regret”
“I regret nothing,” Veronica cut in, voice steady as stone. “Youve got no power here. Not over me. Not over Christopher. Hes *gone* because of your greed.”
The final blow. Isolde deflated, a punctured balloon. Just a frightened old woman, caught.
With one last venomous glare, she turned and stalked away, her figure small and pitiful against the overgrown path.
When silence returned, Veronica collapsed onto the damp earth, clutching the box. Christophers last gift. His protection.
She sat there till dusk. No tearsshed cried them all a year ago. Only a strange, clean emptiness. The truth, at last.
Two weeks later, her solicitor called.
“Its done. Isolde signed away all claimscottage, flat, everything. No fuss. Told her wed drop the fraud case if she disappeared. Doubt well see her again.”
“Thank you,” Veronica said quietly.
That same day, she returned to the cottagenot to search, but to *fix*. Secateurs in hand, she pruned dead branches, cleared nettles, weeded flowerbeds. The work soothed her.
By evening, exhausted, she sat on Christophers handmade bench. The cottage wasnt a place of grief anymore. It was a fortress. A victory.
She didnt know what came next. But for the first time in a year, the future didnt scare her. *She
