**Diary Entry**
Its been a year since I lost my husband. Today, his delayed email arrived with a single line: *”Dont trust my mother. Dig under the old apple tree.”*
The notification chime on my laptop made me flinch.
A year to the day. Minute for minute. A year since that phone call shattered my life into before and after.
On the screen, a single line glowed: *”Scheduled delivery. From: Christopher Whitmore.”* My fingers went numb. His name had no right to appear thereit felt like a cruel joke.
With trembling hands, I opened it. Almost no text. Just one sentence, seared into my mind like a branding iron:
*”Nikki, if youre reading this, then 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 cut through the silence like a gunshot. There she stoodmy mother-in-law, Margaret Whitmore. Her face was a mask of grief, a food container clutched in her hands.
“Veronica, darling,” she said, her voice dripping with false sympathy. “I thought you might be alone today. I wanted to check on you.”
She strode into the kitchen without waiting for an invitation, setting the container on the table. I closed the door behind her, my husbands email burning against my back.
“Ive been thinking,” Margaret began, scanning the room. “We should sell the cottage.”
I froze. *The cottage.* Our place. Where the old apple tree stood.
“Sell it?” My voice sounded hollow. “Why?”
“Whats the point now?” She sighed dramatically. “Its just a burden for you alone. And I could use the extra income in retirement. Besides, its too painfulreminds me too much of Christopher.”
Her words were logical, measured. But as I watched her, I didnt see a grieving motherjust a predator circling its prey. The words from the email echoed in my skull.
“Ive already found a buyer,” she added casually. “A reliable one. Theyre offering a good price, but they wont wait forever.”
“I I need time to think,” I forced out.
Her face hardened. The mask slipped, revealing cold steel beneath.
“Whats there to think about? Do you want our familys home to rot? To let strangers tear it apart?”
She stepped closer, her eyes pinning me in place.
“Ive prepared the paperwork. Ten tomorrow at the solicitors. Just sign, and its done. Dont make an old woman beg.”
I took a step back. This wasnt a requestit was an ultimatum. And suddenly, with crystalline clarity, I understood why Christopher had sent that message from beyond.
He *knew*. He knew something about his mother and that cottage.
“Fine,” I whispered, my insides turning to ice. “Ill be there.”
Margarets victory smile was swift, her mask of sympathy sliding back into place.
“Thats my girl. Its for the best, dear. We must move forward.”
When the door closed behind her, I walked to the key rack. My hand closed around a single keysmall, with an apple-shaped fob. The cottage key. The key to whatever Christopher had left for me.
I barely slept that night. His words and Margarets threat twisted together like a suffocating knot. By dawn, I knew I wouldnt be meeting any solicitor.
At six, my car sped down the empty motorway, morning mist clinging to the trees.
At nine, my phone rang. Margaret. I ignored the call. A minute later, a text: *”Where are you? Were waiting.”*
I didnt reply.
The cottage greeted me with boarded windows and the damp scent of rotting leaves. Every corner screamed Christopherthe bench hed built, the path to the river where wed walked. In the shed, I found a sturdy spade.
The old apple tree stood in the farthest corner, gnarled branches clawing at the grey sky. I plunged the spade into the earth.
Digging was hard. Roots resisted, stones dulled the blade. My phone buzzed again. This time, I answered.
“Veronica, what game are you playing?” Margarets voice was arctic. “The solicitor wont wait all day.”
“Im not coming.”
“What do you mean? Ive spent *months* arranging this!”
I kept digging, my breath ragged.
“Youll regret this, girl. Deeply.”
The line went dead.
Her threat only hardened my resolve. I dug like a woman possessed, ignoring the dirt, the ache in my back
Then the *clang* of metal.
I fell to my knees, clawing at the soil. A small metal box, wrapped in plastic. No lock, just a simple latch.
My hands shook as I opened it.
Inside: a folder of documents and sealed envelopes. The top one bore Christophers handwriting: *”For Nikki.”*
I tore it open.
Not just a lettera confession. Years of manipulation, financial control, psychological warfare. *”She made me take out loans in her name, said it was for her treatments. I only just learned the money bought 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, trust nothing she says. The proof is all here.”*
I pulled out bank statements, falsified loan agreements, a copy of Christophers *real* willleaving everything to me.
The pieces locked into place. Her rush to sell. The ultimatum. Shed been trying to destroy the one place holding evidence against her.
A rustle behind me.
Margaret stood at the garden gate. No grief, no angerjust the cold calculation of a hunter cornering prey.
“I knew youd come,” she said softly. “Give me the box, Veronica. Walk away, and well part as friends.”
I stood, mud streaking my knees, the box clutched to my chest.
“No. Were *past* friends, *Margaret*.”
Her lips twisted.
“Did those papers give you courage? Christopher thought he could defy me too. Such a soft boy. Too *honest* for his own good.”
She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a whisper.
“He tried rebelling once. Found out about the forgery, made threats. So I *helped* him. For his own sake.”
The word *helped* hung in the air like poison.
In that moment, something inside me snapped. Grief, fearall of it burned away. Years of swallowed insults, of bending to this woman, condensed into a single, searing clarity.
*Enough.*
“I knew youd come too,” I said calmly, pulling out my phone. “So while you were walking from the gate, I took photos.”
I turned the screen toward herclear shots of the forged will, the loan documents.
“I just sent these to our solicitor. He said fraud on this scale is his *specialty*.”
Her confidence wavered.
“What solicitor?”
“The one who handled Christophers affairs. He was *very* surprised to hear youd been arranging a sale behind my back using a revoked power of attorney.”
I stepped closer.
“Oh, and one more thing.” I tapped my phone. “I recorded you the moment you stepped into this garden. Your little confession about *helping* Christopher? Came through *perfectly*.”
Her face crumbled. The mask was gonejust raw fury and fear.
“You”
“Game over,” I said. “You have two choices. Walk away now and never darken my life again. Or I press *one more button*, and this recording goes straight to the police.”
For a heartbeat, she tried to rally. Straightened her spine, eyes flashing with old defiance.
“Youre *nothing*,” she spat. “A stupid girl. Youll regret”
“I wont,” I cut in, my voice steady. “You have no power over me. Not anymore. And Christopher? Hes gone because of *you*.”
That was the final blow. Margaret deflated like a punctured balloon. All her carefully constructed armour turned to dust.
She left without another word, her retreating figure small and pitiful against the overgrown path.
When her footsteps faded, I collapsed onto the damp earth, adrenaline draining away. The metal box pressed against my chestChristophers last act of love. His final shield.
I sat there until dusk, no tears left. Just a quiet, hollow clarity. The truth, bitter and clean.
Two weeks later, the solicitor called.
“Its done, Veronica. Margaret signed everythingno claim to the cottage, the flat, any of Christophers estate. No questions asked. I made it clear we wouldnt pursue charges if she disappeared. Doubt well see her again.”
“Thank you,” I said softly.
That same day, I returned to the cottagenot
