A year had passed since her husbands death. Today, an automated email arrived with just one line: “Dont trust my mother. Dig under the old apple tree.”
The chime of her laptop made Veronica flinch.
Exactly one year. To the minute. A year since that phone call had cleaved her life in two.
On the screen glowed a single line: “Scheduled delivery. From: Christopher Whitmore.”
Her fingers went numb. She stared at her husbands namesomething that had no business appearing there. It felt like a cruel joke.
With trembling hands, she opened the email. Almost no text. Just one sentence, seared into her mind like a brand:
“Nicky, if youre reading this, then its real. Dont trust a word my mother says. Look under the old apple tree in the garden. She knows everything.”
A sharp rap at the door cut through the silence like a gunshot. There she stood. Her mother-in-law, Margaret Whitmore. A mask of sorrow plastered on her face, a Tupperware of shepherds pie in her hands.
“Veronica, darling,” she simpered, her voice dripping with false sympathy. “I thought youd be alone today. Came to check on you.”
She breezed into the kitchen without waiting for an invitation and set the container on the table. Veronica shut the door behind her, the laptop burning against her back.
“Ive been thinking,” Margaret began, eyeing the kitchen like a surveyor. “We ought to sell the cottage.”
Veronica froze. The cottage. Their place. Where the old apple tree stood.
“Sell it?” Her voice sounded foreign to her own ears. “Why?”
“Whats the point now?” Margaret sighed dramatically. “Its too much hassle for you alone, and I could use the extra income. Besides, its painfulreminds me too much of Christopher.”
Her words were logical, reasonable. But Veronica saw not a grieving motherjust a predator circling. The emails phrase hammered in her skull.
“Ive already got a buyer lined up,” Margaret added casually. “Reliable chap. Good offer, but he wont wait forever. Cash in hand.”
“I I need time to think,” Veronica managed.
Margarets face hardened. The grieving mask slipped, revealing cold steel beneath.
“Whats there to think about? Letting our familys place rot? Letting strangers pick it apart?”
She stepped closer, her gaze drilling into Veronica.
“The paperworks ready. Ten oclock tomorrow at the solicitors. Just sign, and well be done. Dont make an old woman beg.”
Veronica retreated. This wasnt a requestit was an ultimatum. And suddenly, with crystalline clarity, she understood: Christopher had sent that message to warn her.
Hed known. Known something about his mother. About the cottage.
“Fine,” she whispered, her insides turning to ice. “Ill be there.”
Margarets triumphant smile returned as she donned her mask of sympathy.
“Thats my girl. Practical. We must move forward.”
When the door shut behind her, Veronica turned to the key rack. A lone key dangled there, its fob a tiny apple.
The cottage key. The key to whatever Christopher had left her.
That night, sleep wouldnt come. His words and Margarets threats twisted together like brambles. By dawn, she had no intention of seeing any solicitor.
At six a.m., her car raced down empty lanes, morning mist clinging to hedgerows.
Her phone rang at nine. Veronica ignored it. Margaret. A minute later: “Where are you? Everyones waiting.”
No reply.
The cottage greeted her with boarded windows, the air thick with damp and fallen leaves. Every corner whispered of Christopherthe bench hed built, the path theyd walked to the stream.
In the shed, she found a spade, old but sturdy.
The apple tree stood in the gardens farthest corner, gnarled branches clawing at the grey sky. Veronica drove the spade into the earth.
Digging was hard. Roots clung stubbornly; stones dulled the blade. Her phone buzzed again. This time, she answered.
“Veronica, what game is this?” Margarets voice was arctic, all faux sympathy gone. “The solicitor wont wait.”
“Im not coming.”
“What do you mean? Ive worked on this deal for months!”
Veronica said nothing, heaving another spadeful of dirt.
“Youll regret this, girl. Deeply.”
The line went dead.
The threat only fueled her. She dug like mad, ignoring dirt and ache. Thenclang. Metal on metal.
She fell to her knees, scrabbling with bare hands. A small tin box, wrapped in plastic. No lock, just a latch.
Her heart pounded. Fingers shaking, she lifted the lid.
Inside lay documents and sealed envelopes. The thickest bore Christophers handwriting: “For Nicky.”
She tore it open. Not just wordstheir whole life with Margaret, seen through his eyes. Years of manipulation, financial control, psychological games.
“…she made me take loans in her name, swore it was for her treatment. Found out last year the money bought a flat she rents out…”
“…forged my signature on a power of attorney. Im scared, Nicky. Dont know what else shes capable of. If anything happensdont trust her. Proof is here…”
Veronica pulled out more papers. Fraudulent loan agreements. Bank statements tracing large withdrawals. A copy of Christophers alternate willleaving everything, including the cottage, solely to her.
It all clicked. The rush to sell. The ultimatum. Margaret was destroying the one place holding evidence against her.
A rustle behind her.
At the garden gate stood Margaret. No grief, no angerjust the cold stare of a hunter cornering prey.
“Knew youd come,” she said calmly. “Hand over the box, Veronica. Well part as friends.”
Veronica stood, clutching the tin. Mud on her knees, hair wildbut her gaze steady.
“Too late for friends, Margaret.”
Not “Mum,” as Christopher had always asked. The formality landed like a slap.
Margaret smirked. “Did those papers make you brave? Christopher thought he could defy me too. Pathetic boy. Always too soft.”
She stepped closer, voice dropping to a whisper.
“He found out about the power of attorney, made threats. Had to… help him see reason.”
The word “help” hung like poison.
In that instant, Veronicas grief burned away. Years of swallowed insults, of bending to this womancondensed into one white-hot point.
Enough.
“I knew youd come too,” she said coolly, pulling out her phone. Her hands no longer shook. “While you walked here, I took photos.”
She turned the screen. Clear shots of the forged will and loan papers.
“Just emailed these to our solicitor. He says fraud on this scale is his specialty.”
Margarets face twitched. Confidence wavered.
“What nonsense? What solicitor?”
“Christophers. He was quite surprised youd arranged a sale behind my back using a void power of attorney.”
Veronica stepped forward, closing the gap. Now she advanced.
“Oh, andI recorded you the moment you entered the garden. Your help comment came through beautifully.”
She hit play. A tinny but unmistakable: “…Had to… help him see reason…”
Margaret froze. The mask crumbled completely, revealing raw fury and fear. She stared at Veronica like seeing her for the first time.
“You” she hissed, but words failed.
“Game over,” Veronica said. “Two choices. Walk away now and never contact me again. Or I press send, and this goes straight to the police. Decide.”
For a second, Margaret tried to rally. Straightened, eyes flashing with familiar arrogance.
“Youre nothing,” she spat. “A silly girl. Youll regret”
“Ill regret nothing,” Veronica cut in, voice flat. “Youve no power over me. Or Christopher. Hes gone because of your greed.”
The final blow. Margaret deflated like a punctured balloon. Before Veronica stood just a frightened old woman, caught.
With one last hateful glare, Margaret turned and stalked away, her figure small and pitiful against the overgrown path.
When the footsteps faded, Veronica collapsed onto the damp earth. Adrenaline ebbed, leaving hollow silence. She clutched the tinChristophers last gift. His protection.
She sat there until dusk, tearless. Instead, a bitter clarity settled. She finally had the truth.
Two weeks later, her phone rang.
“Veronica, its done,” the solicitor said. “Margaret signed away all claimscottage, flat, any inheritance. No fight. I explained you wouldnt press charges if she disappeared. Doubt well see her again.”
“Thank you,” she murmured.
That same day, Veronica returned to the cottagenot to dig, but to prune. Secateurs in hand,
