knife.
“Did he ask you to sign?”
“Yes.”
“Did you sign?”
“No.”
“Did he threaten you?”
Mara looked through the rain-streaked windshield at her front door. The curtains shifted. Someone was watching.
“He tried to stop me from leaving.”
“Drive here,” Simone said. “Bring everything. We start with the house.”
Simone’s office sat between a pharmacy and a florist on a quiet street downtown. By the time Mara arrived, her sister Naomi was already waiting outside in sweatpants and a puffer jacket, hair twisted into a messy knot, fury written across her face.
“Folder,” Naomi said.
Mara handed it over.
Naomi did not hug her. Not yet. They had grown up in a family where crisis required movement first and softness later.
Inside, Simone spread documents across the conference table. The separation agreement. Bank statements. Screenshots. Security camera stills from the porch showing Ethan and Vanessa kissing beneath the light. Copies of emails between Ethan and a lawyer whose name appeared on the agreement. The trust paperwork Mara’s father had created before his death.
Simone read quickly. Her pen tapped once against the table.
“He wanted you to sign away temporary occupancy,” she said. “That would not transfer ownership, but it would get you physically out of the property. Then he could create pressure, delay, and confusion.”
Naomi stood behind Mara’s chair. “He wanted to squat in her grief with his girlfriend.”
Simone’s mouth twitched. “Legally inelegant, but accurate.”
Mara might have laughed if she had not been so tired.
Simone turned to the bank statements. “The transfers to Pike Creative Holdings are significant. Did you authorize any of these?”
“No. Ethan said the withdrawals were for quarterly taxes and repairs.”
“They weren’t.”
The room seemed to narrow.
Mara pressed her hands flat to the table. The wood was cool. Real. “How much?”
Simone looked at her for a moment before answering. “Enough that we involve a forensic accountant today.”
Naomi swore softly.
Mara closed her eyes and saw Ethan at their dining table, carving roast chicken while his mother praised him for providing such a beautiful home. Mara had paid the mortgage from the design business she built after her father died. She had paid the insurance, the repairs, the groceries, the endless family weekends. Ethan contributed irregularly and accepted praise steadily.
All that time, he had been moving money toward Vanessa.
Mara’s phone buzzed on the table.
Ethan.
Then Celia.
Then Vanessa.
Simone pointed to the phone. “Do not answer calls. Messages only. Everything becomes evidence.”
A text appeared.
Vanessa: Mara, this does not have to be embarrassing. Ethan wants peace. Let him have what he promised me.
Another followed.
Vanessa: Celia says you’re unstable. Don’t make us prove it.
Naomi leaned over. Her eyes went dark. “I want five minutes with her.”
“You want no minutes with her,” Simone said. “Mara, send this: All future communication goes through my attorney. Nothing else.”
Mara typed the sentence. Her hands no longer shook.
For the next hour, Simone moved with controlled speed. She restricted the joint account. She contacted a forensic accountant. She drafted an emergency filing to prevent further transfers. She sent notice to Ethan’s attorney. She instructed Mara not to return to the house alone.
At 8:48 a.m., Aunt Lorna called.
Mara answered on speaker.
“Mara?” Lorna
