Thomas’s voice in my memory.

Read every page before you sign anything, Evie.

He had said it about mortgages, insurance policies, appliance warranties, even campground waivers.

I swallowed.

“What did he file?”

Denise clicked through the application.

“Occupancy review.

Proposed maximum of twelve guests.

Seasonal rental use.

There are questions about septic capacity, parking, emergency contact information.”

“Twelve?”

She nodded.

The cabin slept six comfortably.

Eight if people liked each other.

Twelve would have required sofa beds, air mattresses, and a complete disregard for the septic system Thomas had spent years protecting like a fragile relative.

“Can he do this?”

“He can submit paperwork.

That doesn’t make him the owner, and it doesn’t guarantee approval.”

“Whose name is on the deed?”

She checked.

“Yours alone.”

Relief went through me so sharply that I almost laughed.

I had known the answer.

Of course I had.

But seeing it in an official record mattered.

“Can you print everything?”

“Yes.”

Seven pages came out of the printer.

Page three listed Mark as PROPERTY CONTACT.

Page four named him as MANAGING PARTY.

Page five described proposed guest turnover procedures.

Page six stopped me.

Projected Seasonal Gross Revenue: $38,400.

I stared at the figure.

Then I understood the calendar.

The unfamiliar names.

The gold blocks.

The guest agreement.

This was not an overenthusiastic attempt to coordinate relatives.

Mark was planning to rent my cabin.

Maybe he already had.

I thanked Denise and carried the pages back to my car.

For several minutes I sat behind the wheel without starting the engine.

My first instinct was to call Claire.

My second was stronger.

I drove back to the cabin.

Claire was alone when I arrived.

She sat on the porch steps with the laminated chart beside her.

The wind moved a strand of hair across her cheek.

She looked up at the county papers in my hand and immediately looked away.

That was enough.

“You knew.”

“Mom.”

“How long?”

She pressed her palms together.

“Not long.”

“How long, Claire?”

Her eyes filled.

“Three weeks.”

I sat down because my legs suddenly felt weak.

Three weeks.

For three weeks she had known her husband was trying to turn my cabin into rental income.

And she had said nothing.

“He said it could help,” she whispered.

“Help whom?”

She stared toward the valley.

“That’s complicated.”

“No.

It’s a short question.”

She shook her head.

“You don’t understand what’s been happening.”

“Then tell me.”

She wiped both hands down her jeans.

“Mark’s business is in trouble.”

I waited.

“He lost two major clients in January.

Then a supplier sued over a contract dispute.

We refinanced our house last year, and I found out in February that there are loans I didn’t know about.”

Her voice broke on the last sentence.

“How much?” I asked.

“I don’t know exactly.”

“Claire.”

“I don’t.”

I believed her.

That frightened me in a different way.

She continued.

“He thought the cabin could generate income during the summer.

Enough to get us through the year.”

“And you thought I would agree?”

She looked at me.

“No.”

The honesty hurt.

“So you planned not to ask.”

“I thought maybe once it was working—”

“Working?”

“I thought once there was money coming in, you’d see it differently.”

I looked at my daughter and felt something inside