My husband had spent years warning me never to set foot on that farm. So after he passed away and the lawyer handed me the key, saying that from now on the place belonged to me, I was ready to sell it right away and put everything behind me. But before making my final decision, I still wanted to see it once for myself. When the door opened, I finally understood why, all those years, he had never wanted me to set foot there.

Another of Joshua’s hidden precautions. Security installed quietly throughout the property, tasteful enough not to turn the place into a fortress, effective enough to record every approach. Six months earlier I would have called it excessive. Now it felt like another conversation across time with a man who had understood his brothers far better than I wanted him to.

That afternoon I went back to the war room beneath the barn.

There, in the bottom drawer of Joshua’s desk, I found a folder labeled IF THEY RETURN.

Inside were contingency plans. Injunction drafts. Contact information for regulatory investigators in Toronto and Calgary. Notes on how Robert tended to escalate when he felt cornered. Suggestions on which of the brothers would crack first under financial scrutiny. And at the very back, sealed in an envelope, a letter addressed to Robert Mitchell in Joshua’s hand.

Paperclipped to it was a note.

Last resort.

I slipped the envelope into my pocket.

The next morning, all three brothers arrived at the gate in the black SUV, accompanied by a modest sedan and two men I did not recognize.

Ellis came to find me in the great room.

“They’re asking to speak with you,” he said. “Saying it’s personal.”

“Of course it is,” I murmured.

I called Maren. Then Jenna. Then pinned to my sweater a small digital recorder Joshua had left in the master bedroom safe, disguised as an antique brooch. If the brothers wanted another conversation, I intended to keep it.

When they entered, the difference in Robert was visible at once.

He looked older than when I had last seen him. Not dramatically, not theatrically, but with that unmistakable leaching that serious illness performs on a face. The skin under his eyes had gray shadows. His posture, still upright through pride, had lost some of its ease. Allan stayed close to him in a way that suggested concern more than strategy this time. David looked strained. The two strangers were introduced as Dr. Harmon, a cardiologist, and Mr. Pearson, Robert’s personal attorney.

“Thank you for seeing us,” Robert said.

His voice had changed too. Not weaker exactly. Less armored.

“Sit,” I said.

Ellis served coffee and withdrew.

Robert did not circle the matter long.

“I’ve been diagnosed with hypertrophic cardiomyopathy,” he said. “The same condition Joshua had.”

The room held still around the sentence.