“Yes,” I answered, stepping out onto the porch. The air was cool, the sky a clear glass bowl overhead.
“I’m Deputy Harlan,” he said. “I received a call about a possible disputed property and concerns that someone may be occupying the house unlawfully. I just need to verify some documents, ma’am.”
“Occupying the house unlawfully?” I repeated, shooting a glare at Victor.
Victor lifted his chin, his expression smooth. “We’re just trying to ensure that our family’s estate isn’t being misappropriated,” he said. “Our late brother had a history of… poor decisions.”
“You mean decisions that didn’t benefit you,” I shot back.
The deputy’s gaze flicked between us, wary. “If we could keep this civil,” he said. “Ma’am, do you have any documents showing your connection to this property?”
“I do,” I said, forcing my voice to stay calm. I opened the folder and handed him the top section—deeds, Michael’s will, Daniel’s cover letter outlining my ownership. “My husband bought this land. He left it to me. His attorney can confirm all of this if needed.”
As the deputy flipped through the pages, his expression shifted from polite neutrality to mild surprise to something approaching respect.
He turned to the brothers. “Do you gentlemen have any documentation showing legal claim to this property?” he asked.
Pierce’s jaw tensed. “Our lawyer is drawing up paperwork,” he said. “We can file an injunction—”
“Then you’ll need to do that,” the deputy said calmly. He closed the folder and handed it back to me. “As far as I can tell, Mrs. Quinn has valid documentation showing she is the sole owner. I can’t remove her from her own property.”
Something savage and relieved surged through me.
“So unless you folks want to be cited for trespassing,” the deputy continued, keeping his tone even, “I’m going to have to ask you to leave the premises. Any disputes about the validity of the will or prior inheritance will need to be handled in civil court.”
Victor’s face flushed a deep, mottled red. For a second, I thought he might actually argue with the armed representative of the law. Pierce laid a hand on his arm, murmured something low, and Victor swallowed whatever he’d been about to say.
“You haven’t heard the last of this,” he said instead, directing it at me like a thrown stone.
“I’m sure I haven’t,” I replied, surprising myself with how steady I sounded. “But you’ve heard the last of it for today.”
They left, finally, their tires spitting small stones as they reversed back down the drive. The deputy lingered long enough to give me a card with his name and number, “just in case,” then drove off as well.
Silence settled over the estate once more.
I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.
“Okay,” I whispered into the empty air. “Round one.”
Inside, the orchid paintings seemed to glow faintly in the late afternoon light, as if approving.
It was only after I had locked the door and drawn the curtains that I noticed the structure at the edge of the garden more clearly.
Through the tall windows in the great hall, beyond the terraces of shrubs and stone paths, a glass building shimmered. I had only glimpsed it when I first arrived, but now curiosity pulled me toward it like a magnet.
I crossed the hall, pausing just long enough to brush my fingers lightly over the laptop as though assuring myself it would still be there when I returned.
Outside, the air carried the faint smell of damp earth and pine needles. Gravel crunched beneath my shoes as I followed a cobblestone path down a gentle slope. The nearer I got to the glass building, the more I recognized its structure—a greenhouse.
It wasn’t small. It stretched at least thirty feet long, with a peaked roof and glass panes framed in dark metal. Vines crept up portions of the exterior, and condensation fogged some of the lower panels, hinting at warmth inside.
I reached the door, a simple glass panel set into a metal frame, and hesitated.
What if there was no electricity? Had someone been maintaining this place? The orchids in the great hall were painted, but the single live plant on the laptop had looked… fresh.
Slowly, I pulled the door open.
Warm, humid air washed over me, full of the rich scent of soil and plant life. It hit me so strongly that for a moment I just stood there, my eyes closed, breathing it in.
When I opened them, I had to grab the doorframe to steady myself.
Orchids. Real orchids, not painted, not imagined. Dozens upon dozens of them.
They lined the benches that ran the length of the greenhouse, their leaves glossy, their roots wrapped around bark or nestled in pots filled with coarse bark chips. Some hung from the ceiling in moss-lined baskets, their blooms cascading down in delicate clusters. Others clung to sections of mounted cork on the walls, their aerial roots reaching out into the humid air.
There were common varieties—a cheerful cascade of white Phalaenopsis, the kind you see in grocery stores—and rare specimens with mottled leaves and exotic flowers. I spotted a Paphiopedilum rothschildianum, its petals long and striped, worth more than some people’s monthly rent. A cluster of tiny, jewel-like Masdevallias. A Vanda with roots that dangled in the air, its blooms an almost impossibly vivid shade of violet-blue.
