You’re insane. Mom said you’re trying to press charges. You always have to make everything about you.
I read it twice and forwarded it to Evan.
By Friday, the police department returned my call. Their tone had changed—measured, cautious.
“Ms. Caldwell,” the officer said, “we’ve reviewed your documents. The property is clearly yours. The report… includes statements that appear inconsistent.”
“Inconsistent,” I echoed.
“We’ll be speaking with the individuals who made the report,” he continued. “Would you like to file a formal complaint?”
“Yes,” I replied. “I would.”
I filed it. Evan also drafted a civil cease-and-desist in case my mother or Caroline attempted to come back. He added one suggestion that felt both deliberate and justified.
“Since they publicly claimed you’re a stranger,” he said, “you can formally withdraw any implied consent for them to be on the property. Written notice. Certified mail.”
So I followed through.
I mailed certified letters to both my mother and sister stating they were no longer authorized to enter my property for any reason and that any further attempts would be considered trespassing.
Then I waited—not with optimism, but with certainty.
Because people who create scenes to win rarely stop after one performance.
They escalate.
The next weekend, my phone started ringing at 7:14 a.m.
It was Trevor.
I nearly let it go to voicemail. Then curiosity got the better of me.
“Harper,” he blurted, his voice tight. “I—I didn’t know who else to call. Your mom is spiraling.”
I pushed myself upright. “Why are you calling me?”
“Because Caroline says you’re… planning something. She says you’re trying to ‘steal’ the lake house and ruin the engagement. And now the police are involved and—” He swallowed hard. “They’re there. Right now. Patrol cars.”
I remained composed. “They went back?”
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