Chapter 2 - Behind Closed Doors
Olivia didn’t break down. She wasn't the kind of woman who broke down; she was the kind who redirected the explosion.
"Everyone," Olivia said, her voice shaking with an exquisitely calibrated mix of vulnerability and grace, "I am so, so sorry. Becca has been going through a really dark time since Dad... well, since the estate settled. We wanted to surprise her. We wanted this to be a sanctuary for the whole family, but she's... she has these episodes."
"Episodes?" I barked a laugh, cold and sharp. "Are you out of your mind?"
"Bedroom. Now," Diane commanded, her voice dropping an octave into the terrifying tone she used when we were children, the one that meant the belt or total isolation. She grabbed my wrist with a grip that bruised, dragging me toward the hallway that led to the primary suite.
Jason stepped up, his chest puffed out, attempting to herd the guests toward the back deck. "Hey, folks, how about we check out the view of the peaks? The snow is really letting up over Sneffels. Grab your drinks!"
Aunt Carol was staring at me with genuine horror, clearly convinced that grief had driven me insane.
I let Diane pull me into the primary bedroom, not because she was stronger than me, but because I needed to see what they had done to the rest of the house.
The door clicked shut, cutting off the low, buzzing chatter of the great room.
The bedroom was unrecognizable.
My handcrafted cedar bedframe, built from reclaimed timbers from the old mine tipple down the gulch, was covered in a pristine, ruffled duvet that looked like an explosion of white meringue. My framed geological survey maps had been taken down. In their place hung two oversized framed prints of cursive script: *Stay Wild, Mountain Child* and *All Who Wander Are Not Lost*.
On the dresser sat Olivia's monogrammed leather jewelry boxes, her curling irons, and three open bottles of perfume.
"What is this?" I whispered. My voice wasn't loud now. It was completely hollowed out by disbelief. "Mom. What is this?"
Diane locked the door and leaned against it, breathing heavily. She looked older in the harsh afternoon light reflecting off the snow outside. The fine lines around her mouth were pulled tight with an anger that was entirely focused on me.
"How could you do that out there?" Diane spat, her voice shaking with fury. "How could you humiliate your sister in front of her friends? In front of Jason’s business partners?"
"Jason’s business partners?" I repeated, my brain struggling to process the sheer audacity. "You gave her my key. The emergency key I left in your safe in Denver. You gave it to her."
"She needed this, Rebecca!" Diane stepped forward, her hands waving wildly. "You don't understand the pressure she's under! Jason’s firm is restructuring. If they don't project success—real, tangible wealth—they won't get the next round of angel funding. Do you know what happens to their family if Jason’s business fails? Do you know what happens to the children?"
"They don't have children!" I shouted, the dam finally breaking. "They have a French bulldog and a leased Tesla! And they don't own this house!"
"They could have!" Diane cried out.
The words hung in the warm, scented air of my bedroom like poison gas.
I stopped breathing. The room seemed to tilt slightly on its axis.
"What did you just say?"
Diane looked away, her jaw working as she smoothed the front of her expensive wool slacks. "You don't need this place, Becca. You're single. You're thirty-seven years old. You work eighty hours a week in Denver underwriting insurance policies that nobody cares about. You come up here twice a year to bang nails into wood like some kind of hermit. Olivia has an image. She has an audience. She can monetize this lodge. She’s already talking to three different interior brands about a winter campaign!"
"I bought this house," I said, enunciating every syllable as if speaking to a child or a stroke victim. "I bought it with my own money. I spent three years digging out the crawlspace, fixing the dry rot, replacing the joists. Dad helped me before he got sick. This is *my* home."
"And Dad left you the bulk of his life insurance!" Diane snapped back, her eyes flashing with a deep-seated resentment that had clearly been festering for years. "He left you eighty thousand dollars, Rebecca! He left Olivia twenty! He always favored you because you went into the service for two years and she went to art school! Do you know how that made her feel? Do you know the trauma she carried knowing her father thought she was less capable?"
"He didn't think she was less capable, Mom! He knew she was a financial black hole!"
"She is your sister!" Diane stepped right up to me, poking a rigid finger into my sternum. "And family fixes things. Jason is putting together a paperwork package. They’re going to take over the mortgage payments. They'll pay you back your down payment over ten years, without interest. It’s an intra-family transfer. It’s completely legal."
I looked at my mother. Truly looked at her.
I saw the woman who had spent my entire childhood making excuses for Olivia’s stolen credit cards, Olivia’s wrecked cars, Olivia’s ruined friendships. When Olivia failed out of CU Boulder, it was the professors' fault. When Olivia lost her first marketing job for plagiarizing a campaign, the company culture was toxic. And now, when Olivia needed a million-dollar aesthetic backdrop to save her husband's sinking reputation, my mother had delivered my home on a silver platter.
"Where is the deed, Mom?" I asked quietly.
Diane blinked, caught off guard. "What?"
"Where are the documents I had locked in the fire safe under the floorboards in the closet?"
Diane didn't answer. But her eyes flicked for a fraction of a second toward the floor of the walk-in closet, where an antique kilim rug had been casually kicked over the access hatch.
I shoved past her.
"Rebecca, don't you dare!" Diane shrieked, grabbing my jacket.
I didn't slow down. I dragged her two steps into the closet, ripped the rug away with my boot, and dropped to my knees. The steel hatch was unlocked. The digital keypad had been pried off with a flathead screwdriver. Inside, the safe was open.
My deed was gone. The original blueprint drawings signed by my father were gone. My property tax receipts were gone.
I sat back on my heels, the cold concrete of the foundation radiating up through the floor.
Behind me, the bedroom door opened. Olivia slipped inside, closing it softly behind her. She had a glass of water in her hand, her expression entirely transformed. The tears were gone. The breathless innocence had evaporated. She looked at me with the cold, assessing gaze of a corporate raider.
"Becca," Olivia said calmly, taking a delicate sip of water. "Let's be adults about this. The paperwork is already with our attorney in Grand Junction. Jason signed the quitclaim documents under the power of attorney Mom had for Dad's estate."
I looked up at her from the floor. "Mom never had power of attorney over my property."
Olivia smiled, a tiny, venomous smirk that chilled me far more than the mountain wind outside. "She had power of attorney over Dad’s lingering assets. And since you used Dad’s estate money as the earnest deposit, our lawyer says there’s a significant cloud on the title. It would take you three years and fifty thousand dollars in legal fees to contest it. By then, Jason’s company will have gone public, we’ll have paid you out, and everyone wins."
She took another sip, looking down at me like I was an unruly tenant.
May you like
"Now," Olivia said smoothly, "you can either wash your face, put on a nice sweater, and come out there and support your family... or you can sleep in the garage. Because I have twelve people staying the night, and every single bedroom is fully booked."
***
