“It’s real,” he cut in. There was no curiosity in his voice. No gossip. Just fear. “You need to see it yourself. Don’t tell anyone. Don’t call her. Don’t text. Come alone. Now.”

I looked down at the hinge in my hand, the screw halfway in place, the door still crooked. The workshop felt steady, manageable. For three years, my life had been built on small problems I could fix.

This wasn’t one of them.

“What did she do?” I asked anyway.

Warren’s breath caught. “It’s not just her. Her husband too. Trevor. And… there are papers.”

Papers.

My mind jumped through images—the closing documents still on my kitchen counter, the “Estate Planning” file I hadn’t opened since Patricia died, the health directive I’d signed last month after a blood pressure scare. Routine. Responsible. Ordinary.

Papers.

The workshop suddenly felt tighter, as if the walls had leaned closer.

“Where are you?”

“My place. Three houses down. Blue siding.”

“I know it.”

“Please,” he said, and the weight in that word tightened my throat. “Don’t bring anyone.”

The call ended without goodbye. Just the hollow click of someone who’d already set something in motion.

I stood there with the phone to my ear, listening to silence.

Then I moved.

I didn’t clean up. Didn’t lock the workshop. Didn’t follow any of the small routines that had made my days feel controlled. I walked straight to my truck, rain soaking into my hair, cold settling into my bones.

Backing out of the driveway, I caught a glimpse of the house in the mirror. New curtains. A welcome mat Patricia would’ve hated for being too cheerful. Boxes still stacked inside.

My fresh start.

And somewhere in that living room, a camera I never asked for was quietly watching.

The drive to Warren’s took under two minutes. It felt much longer.