It had been a year since her husband passed away. That morning, the delayed letter arrived with its single, cryptic line: *”Dont trust my mother. Dig beneath the old apple tree.”*
The chime from her laptop made Veronica flinch.
A year to the day. Minute for minute. Twelve months since that phone call had split her life in two.
On the screen glowed a single notification: *”Scheduled delivery. From: Cyril Belgrave.”*
Her fingers went numb. She stared at the nameher husbands namewhere it had no right to appear. It felt like a cruel, vicious joke.
With trembling hands, she opened the message. There was barely any text. Just one phrase, seared into her mind like a brand:
*”Nicky, if youre reading thisthen its all true. Dont believe a word my mother says. Look beneath the old apple tree in the garden. She knows everything.”*
A sharp knock at the door cut through the silence like a gunshot. Standing on the threshold was *her*her mother-in-law, Isolde Arkadievna. Her face was a mask of practiced grief, her hands clutching a food container.
“Veronica, darling,” she cooed, her voice dripping with false sympathy. “I thought youd be alone today. I came to keep you company.”
She strode into the kitchen without waiting for an invitation, setting the container on the table. Veronica shut the door silently behind her, the laptop burning against her back.
“Ive been thinking,” Isolde began, casting a calculating glance around the room. “We must sell the cottage.”
Veronica stilled. *The cottage.* Hers and Cyrils place. Where the old apple tree stood.
“Sell it?” she echoed, her voice strange to her own ears. “Why?”
“What use is it now?” Isolde spread her hands theatrically. “Its only a burden for you, and painful for meevery corner reminds me of Cyril. The money would help my pension.”
Her words were logical, reasonable. But Veronica saw past the grieving mother to the predator beneath. Cyrils warning echoed in her mind.
“Ive already found a buyer,” Isolde added casually. “A reliable man. Hes offering a fair price, but he wont wait forever.”
“I… I need time to think,” Veronica forced out.
Isoldes 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 pick it apart?”
She stepped closer, her gaze drilling into Veronica.
“Ive prepared all the documents. Ten oclock tomorrow at the solicitors. Just sign, and this will be over. Dont force an old woman to beg.”
Veronica retreated. This wasnt a requestit was an ultimatum. And with crystalline clarity, she understood: Cyril had sent that message to warn her.
*He knew.* Knew something about his mother and that cottage.
“Fine,” she whispered, feeling ice spread through her veins. “Ill come.”
Isolde smiled triumphantly, the mask of sympathy sliding back into place. “Good girl. Its for the best.”
When the door closed behind her, Veronica turned to the key rack. Her fingers closed around a lone keyits fob a tiny apple.
*The cottage key. The key to Cyrils secret.*
She barely slept that night. Cyrils words and Isoldes threats twisted together in a sickening knot. By dawn, she had no intention of meeting the solicitor.
At six in the morning, her car sped down the empty motorway, the world still wrapped in mist.
Isolde called at nine. Veronica ignored it. A text followed: *”Where are you? Were waiting.”*
She didnt reply.
The old cottage greeted her with boarded windows and the damp scent of decaying leaves. Every inch of it whispered of Cyrilthe bench hed built, the path to the river where theyd walked. In the shed, she found a rusted but sturdy spade.
The ancient apple tree stood in the farthest corner of the garden, its gnarled branches clawing at the grey sky. Veronica drove the spade into the earth.
The digging was grueling. Roots fought back, stones dulled the blade. Her phone buzzed again. This time, she answered.
“Veronica, what is this?” Isoldes voice was glacial. “The solicitor wont wait forever.”
“Im not coming.”
“What do you mean? Ive spent *months* arranging this!”
Veronica didnt answer, just kept digging with furious strength.
“Youll regret this, girl. Deeply.”
The line went dead.
A hollow *clang*metal striking metal. She fell to her knees, clawing at the dirt. A small iron box, wrapped in plastic. No lock, just a simple latch.
Her hands shook as she lifted the lid.
Inside were documents and sealed envelopes. The thickest bore Cyrils handwriting: *”For Nicky.”*
She tore it open.
The words inside were a confessionyears of manipulation, forged signatures, loans taken in his name. *”She told me the money was for her treatment. I only just learned it bought a flat she rents out…”*
*”…She forged my signature on a power of attorney. Im afraid, Nicky. I dont know what else shes capable of. If anything happens, trust nothing she says. The proof is here.”*
She sifted through the restloan agreements with falsified signatures, bank records tracing large sums, a copy of a will shed never seenleaving *everything* to her, including the cottage.
It all made sense now. The rush to sell. The ultimatum. Isolde had been erasing the one place that held evidence against her.
A rustle behind her.
Isolde stood at the garden gate, her face stripped of grief or rage. Just cold calculation.
“I knew youd come,” she said calmly. “Give me the box, Veronica. Walk away, and well part as friends.”
Veronica rose slowly, clutching the box, mud streaking her knees.
“Theres no friendship left, Isolde Arkadievna.”
No “Mum,” as Cyril had always insisted. The formality was a slap.
Isoldes lips twisted. “Did those papers give you courage? Cyril thought he could defy me too. Such a soft, foolish boy.”
She stepped closer, voice dropping to a whisper.
“He found out about the power of attorney. Started making threats. I had to… *help* him see reason.”
The word *”help”* hung in the air like poison.
Something in Veronica snapped.
“I knew youd follow me,” she said evenly, pulling out her phone. “So while you were walking up, I took photos. Of the forged will. The loan papers. Sent them to our solicitor.”
She turned the screen. Isoldes face flickered.
“He said fraud on this scale is his *specialty.* AndohI recorded you just now. Your little confession about *helping* Cyril?”
She tapped the screen. Isoldes own voice hissed back: *”…had to… help him…”*
The mask shattered. Raw fear and fury twisted Isoldes face.
“You”
“Game over,” Veronica said. “Leave now, and never contact me again. Or I press *send*, and this goes to the police.”
For a heartbeat, Isolde tried to rally. Then she crumpled.
Without another word, she turned and walked away, her figure small and pitiful against the overgrown path.
When the footsteps faded, Veronica sank to the damp earth. The adrenaline ebbed, leaving hollow silence.
She held the box tightly. Cyrils last gift.
Two weeks later, the solicitor called.
“Its done,” he said. “Isoldes signed away all claimsthe cottage, the flat, everything. No fuss. I made it clear you wouldnt press charges if she disappeared.”
“Thank you,” Veronica said quietly.
That afternoon, she returned to the cottagenot to search, but to *rebuild.* She pruned the apple tree, cleared the weeds, worked until her hands ached.
By evening, exhausted, she sat on Cyrils handmade bench. The cottage was no longer a place of grief.
It was a fortress. A victory.
She didnt know what came next. But for the first time in a year, the future didnt frighten her.
Her gaze drifted to the apple tree. New buds swelled on its twisted branches.
Life went on.
Two years later, the cottage was unrecognizable. The rotten fence replaced with hedges, the tangled weeds now smooth lawns and flower beds. The house itself, once derelict, glowed with fresh paint.
Veronica, dirt smudged on her cheek, set a small fountain in placea grinning gnome. She smiled, a calm, sure smile shed never worn before.
Shed sold the flat that echoed with ghosts, moved here permanently,
