It had been a year since Thomas passed away. Today, his delayed letter arrived with a single line: “Dont trust my mother. Dig under the old apple tree.”
The notification sound from her laptop made Veronica flinch.
Exactly a year. To the minute. Twelve months since that phone call that split her life in two.
On the screen, a single line glowed: “Scheduled delivery. From: Thomas Whitmore.”
Her fingers went numb. She stared at her husbands name, which had no right to appear there. It felt like a cruel, twisted joke.
With trembling hands, she opened the email. There was barely any textjust one sentence, seared into her mind like a brand:
“Nikki, if youre reading this, then its all true. Dont trust a word my mother says. Look under the old apple tree in the garden. She knows everything.”
A sharp knock at the door echoed like a gunshot. There she stoodher mother-in-law, Margaret Whitmore. Her face was a mask of practiced grief, her hands clutching a container of food.
“Veronica, love,” she said, her voice dripping with false sympathy. “I thought youd be alone today. I wanted to check on you.”
She stepped into the kitchen without waiting for an invitation and set the container on the table. Veronica shut the door behind her, the laptop with Thomass letter burning against her back.
“Ive been thinking,” Margaret began, briskly surveying the kitchen. “We should sell the cottage.”
Veronica froze. The cottage. Their placehers and Thomass. Where the old apple tree stood.
“Sell it?” she echoed, her voice strange in her own ears. “Why?”
“Whats the point of keeping it now?” Margaret sighed dramatically. “Its just extra work for you. And I could use the moneya little boost to my pension. Besides, its too painful for me to go there. Everything reminds me of Thomas.”
Her words were logical, reasonable. But Veronica looked at her and saw not a grieving mother, but a predator waiting to strike. The words from the letter hammered in her skull.
“Ive already got a buyer lined up,” Margaret added casually. “Very reliable. Offering a good price, but he wont wait forever.”
“I… I need time to think,” Veronica managed.
Margarets expression shifted. The mask of grief slipped, revealing cold steel beneath.
“Whats there to think about? Do you want our familys place to rot? To let strangers tear it apart?”
She stepped closer, her gaze boring into Veronica.
“Ive already prepared the paperwork. Meet me at the solicitors tomorrow at ten. Just sign it, and well be done. Dont make an old woman beg.”
Veronica took a step back. This wasnt a request anymore. It was an ultimatum. And suddenly, with crystal clarity, she understoodThomas had sent that message from beyond to warn her.
He knew. He knew something about his mother and that cottage.
“Fine,” she said quietly, her insides turning to ice. “Ill be there.”
Margaret smiled victoriously, pulling the mask of sympathy back into place.
“Thats my girl. Its for the best. We have to move on.”
When the door closed behind her, Veronica turned to the key rack. Her hand reached for the lone key with a tiny apple-shaped keychain.
The cottage key. The key to whatever secret Thomas had left her.
That night, Veronica barely slept. Thomass words and Margarets ultimatum twisted together into a sticky knot of dread. By morning, she had no intention of going to any solicitor.
At six a.m., while the city still slept, her car raced down the empty motorway. A cold dawn mist clung to the trees.
Her phone rang at exactly nine. Veronica flinched but declined the call. Margaret. A minute later, a text: “Where are you? Were all waiting.”
She didnt answer.
The old cottage greeted her with boarded-up windows. The air smelled of damp leaves and forgotten memories. Everything here reminded her of Thomasthe bench hed built, the path to the river where theyd walked.
In the shed, she found an old but sturdy shovel.
The ancient apple tree stood in the farthest corner of the garden, its gnarled branches clawing at the grey sky like twisted fingers. Veronica drove the shovel into the earth.
Digging was hard. The roots clung stubbornly, the stones dulled the blade. Her phone buzzed again. This time, she answered.
“Veronica, what game are you playing?” Margarets voice was icy, every trace of yesterdays sympathy gone. “The solicitor wont wait all day.”
“Im not coming,” Veronica panted, sweat dripping down her temple.
“What do you mean, youre not coming? Ive spent six months arranging this!”
Veronica said nothing, shoveling harder.
“Youll regret this, girl. Deeply. I always get what I want.”
The line went dead.
Veronica tossed the phone aside. The threat only fueled her. She dug wildly, ignoring the dirt, the ache in her back. Thenclang.
The shovel hit something solid.
She dropped to her knees, scrabbling at the dirt with her hands. A small metal box, wrapped in layers of plastic. No lock, just a latch.
Her heart pounded as she lifted the lid.
Inside were documents and sealed envelopes. The top one, thickest of all, bore Thomass handwriting: “For Nikki.”
She tore it open. Not just wordstheir entire life with Margaret, seen through her sons eyes. Years of manipulation, financial control, psychological torment.
*”…she made me take out loans in her name, said it was for her treatment. Only recently did I learn the money bought her a flat she rents out…”*
*”…she forged my signature on a power of attorney. Im scared, Nikki. I dont know what else shes capable of. If anything happens to me, dont trust her. The proof is all here…”*
Veronica pulled out more papers. Loan agreements with forged signatures. Bank statements showing large transfers. A copy of Thomass real willthe one she never knew existedleaving everything, including the cottage, solely to her.
It all made sense now. The rush to sell. The ultimatum. Margaret was trying to destroy the one place holding evidence against her.
A rustle behind her.
At the garden gate stood Margaret. No grief, no angerjust the cold, calculating stare of a predator cornering its prey.
“I knew youd come,” she said calmly. “Give me the box, Veronica. And well part ways amicably.”
Veronica stood slowly, clutching the metal box. Mud on her knees, hair wildbut her gaze steady.
“Amicable isnt an option anymore, Margaret.”
Shed never called her by her first name before. Always “Mum,” as Thomas had asked. Now, it was a slap.
Margarets lips twisted into a smirk.
“Did those papers give you spine? Thomas thought he could defy me too. Such a soft boy. Always too… *good*.”
She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a whisper.
“He tried to rebel. Found out about the power of attorney, started making threats. I had to… *help* him. Stop him from doing something foolish.”
The word “help” hung in the air.
In that moment, something in Veronica snapped. Grief, fear, confusionall burned away, leaving only cold, razor-sharp clarity. Years of swallowed insults, of bending to this woman, condensed into a single point.
Enough.
“I knew youd come too,” Veronica said calmly, pulling out her phone. Her hands no longer shook. “While you were walking from the gate, I took photos.”
She turned the screen. Clear shots of the real will, the forged loan agreements.
“Just sent these to our solicitor. He says fraud on this scale is his *favourite* kind of case.”
Margarets face flickered. Confidence wavered.
“What nonsense is this? What solicitor?”
“The one who handled Thomass affairs. He was *very* surprised to hear youd spent six months arranging a sale behind my backusing a revoked power of attorney.”
Veronica stepped forward, closing the distance. Now *she* was advancing.
“Oh, and one more thing. I turned on my recorder when you entered the garden. Your little confession about *helping* Thomas came through *perfectly*.”
She tapped the screen. A distorted but unmistakable voice played back: *”…had to… help him…”*
Margaret froze. The mask crumbled completely, revealing pure, ugly rage. She looked at Veronica like she was seeing her for the first timenot the meek daughter-in-law, but a dangerous opponent.
“You” she hissed, but the words failed her.
“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. Pick.”
For a second, Margaret tried to rally. Straightened her spine, eyes flashing with familiar arrogance.
