Page 99 of What Remains of Grace

JENNA HART

EMMELINE CRUZ (A MINOR)

DEFENDANTS

Her stomach pitched.

She read faster, breath shortening, hands shaking.

A notice that it is not in the best interest of all parties for the defendants to jointly possess the real property located at The Blue Cypress…

. . . due to inheritances and ownership percentages…

. . . plaintiff requests fair-market compensation or full purchase by plaintiff if defendants cannot demonstrate financial ability…

Her brain shrieked through the legal jargon:

He’s forcing us to sell.

He wants the house.

He wants the bakery.

He wants everything.

Her breath came too fast, too shallow. The floor felt too far away. Her hands trembled so violently that the papers rustled in her lap.

Grace’s house. The bakery that their grandmother built. Everything that Emmie had left.

Everything she’d fought to restore. Everything she’d bled for this summer.

And she had ignored probate. Buried it under grief and hoped the legal side would sort itself out, like some benevolent force was watching over her.

Her chest tightened so sharply her vision tilted.

She grabbed her keys with numb fingers. She didn’t even lock the door.

* * *

Cole was halfway through a punch list walkthrough, listening to Travis complain about how subcontractors “didn’t respect the sanctity of deadlines,” when his phone buzzed.

He glanced at the screen.

JENNA: I need to see you. Now. Your place.

Everything inside him froze.

There was no joking tone. No emoji.

No softening qualifier like she usually added. Just panic.

“I need—” he started.

“I swear, if it’s another emergency with the drywall—” Travis began.

“Not drywall.” Cole pocketed his phone. “Real emergency.”

“Where are you—”