04

The farmhouse was not what the real estate agent had described. It was even better.

Emma stood in the overgrown front yard, staring up at the two-story structure with its weathered brick facade and its dark, empty windows. The agent, a nervous woman named Layla, was talking about the history of the property, something about a family that had lived there for generations, but Emma was not listening. She was looking at the house across the street.

The Smith family home sat directly opposite, separated only by a narrow strip of road and a line of dying elm trees. From the upstairs window of the farmhouse, she would have a perfect view of their front door, their living room window, their driveway. She would be able to watch everything.

It was not a coincidence. Emma had spent three days searching for properties, and when she found this one, she knew it was fate. The house had been on the market for months, overlooked by buyers because of its age and its remote location, but Emma saw only potential. She saw thick walls and a deep basement. She saw a well that had never run dry. She saw a vantage point that would let her witness every moment of her ex-husband's downfall.

"I will take it," she said, cutting off Layla mid-sentence.

The agent blinked. "You have not even seen the inside."

"I do not need to. I will take it, full price in cash. I want to close by tomorrow."

Layla opened her mouth, closed it, then nodded slowly. "I can make some calls. It should be possible."

Emma pulled out her phone and transferred the deposit on the spot. Then she walked around the property, her mind already racing ahead, planning, calculating. The basement would need to be reinforced, turned into a proper shelter with its own air supply and water storage. The walls would need new insulation, something that could withstand the killing heat. The roof would need solar panels, enough to power a cooling system that could run day and night.

She had thirty-seven days to turn this old farmhouse into a fortress.

The work began that afternoon, Emma hired a construction crew through an agency that specialized in discreet, fast-turnaround projects. She paid extra for them to start immediately, and by the time the sun set, they were already tearing out the old insulation and measuring the basement for reinforcements.

She stood in the upstairs bedroom, watching the lights come on in the house across the street. Derek was home. She could see his silhouette moving past the window, could see Rachel's slender figure in the kitchen, could see the flickering blue glow of the television in the living room. They had no idea she was here, they had no idea she was watching.

The thought made her smile. Her phone buzzed, she glanced at the screen and saw a message from her bank, the supplementary card linked to her account had been used at a supermarket three blocks from the Smith family home. Emma had forgotten about that card, she had given it to Beatrice years ago, back when she still believed that being generous would earn her love.

She opened her banking app and froze the card with a single tap. Then she went back to watching the house across the street.

The supermarket was crowded for a Tuesday morning. Beatrice pushed her cart through the aisles with the practiced efficiency of a woman who had never had to worry about prices. She tossed in imported fruits, expensive cuts of meat, brand-name snacks, all the things she had grown accustomed to over the years. She did not look at the price tags, she never looked at the price tags.

At the checkout, she swiped the card and waited for the familiar beep of approval. Instead, the machine made a harsh buzzing sound. The cashier frowned and tried again.

"I am sorry, ma'am," the cashier said. "This card has been declined."

Beatrice's face went red. "That is impossible. Try it again."

The cashier tried again, declined.

"Maybe there is a problem with the machine," Beatrice said, her voice rising. "Do you know who I am? I shop here every week. I have never had a problem before."

"I am sorry, ma'am. The card is not working. Do you have another form of payment?"

Beatrice did not have another form of payment. She never carried cash. She never needed to. Emma's salary had always been there, reliable as clockwork, covering every expense without question.

She pulled out her phone and called Emma. The call went to voicemail, she called a third time, her hands shaking with fury.

Finally, on the fourth call, Emma answered. "Hello, Mother in-law."

The calmness in her voice made Beatrice's blood boil. "What did you do to my card? It is not working. I am at the supermarket and it is not working."

"I froze it."

"You what? Why would you do that? How am I supposed to pay for my groceries?"

"That is not my problem anymore." Emma's voice was flat, uninterested. "You have your own money. You have your son's salary, you do not need mine."

Beatrice sputtered. "You cannot do this. You cannot just cut us off. We are family."

"No. We are divorced. Or we will be, as soon as the paperwork is finalized. I owe you nothing."

The line went dead. Beatrice stared at her phone, her mouth hanging open, the abandoned groceries still sitting in her cart. The cashier was watching her with a mixture of impatience and pity. The people in line behind her were starting to mutter.

She had never been so humiliated in her life.

She left the supermarket without buying anything, her face burning, her hands still trembling. She walked toward the bus stop, her mind racing, trying to figure out what had just happened. Emma had never spoken to her like that. Emma had never refused her anything. Emma had always been obedient, respectful, eager to please.

Something had changed. Something was very, very wrong.

At the bus stop, she ran into an old acquaintance. Miss Angela, a woman she had known for years, a woman she had always looked down on because her family was not as well off as the Smith. Angela was carrying shopping bags and smiling, and when she saw Beatrice, her smile widened.

"Beatrice! I have not seen you in ages. How are you? How is your son?"

Beatrice forced a smile. "We are well. Very well, and you?"

"Wonderful. My daughter just got married, and we are thinking of moving to a bigger place. Actually, that reminds me. I heard the most interesting thing the other day."

"What is that?"

Angela leaned closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "I heard your daughter-in-law bought a house. The old farmhouse on the edge of the city. Paid for it in full, cash, and she is already renovating it. Can you believe that? You are so lucky to have a daughter-in-law like her. So generous and successful."

Beatrice's smile froze on her face. "A house?"

"Yes. The one across from your place, actually. The old property, I heard she paid more than a million for it. Maybe two. And she is putting in all sorts of upgrades. Solar panels. A new basement, very fancy if you ask me."

Beatrice could not breathe. A house, across from their home, paid for in full. With what money? Where did Emma get that kind of money? She had no family, no inheritance, nothing except her salary, and that was never enough to buy a house outright.

Unless she had been hiding something. Unless she had been saving for years, squirreling away money while pretending to be poor, while making Beatrice feel guilty for every purchase, every expense.

The rage that flooded through her was almost blinding.

"I have to go," she said abruptly, cutting off Angela mid-sentence. "I just remembered something I need to do."

She abandoned her shopping plans and rushed to the bus, her mind spinning. Emma had money. Emma had bought a house. Emma was renovating it, preparing it for something, and she had cut off the family's access to her accounts without warning.

This was not a tantrum. This was not a temporary rebellion. This was something else entirely, something that Beatrice did not understand but knew she had to stop.

She burst through the front door of the Smith family home and found Derek in the living room, watching television with a beer in his hand. He looked up when she entered, his expression shifting from boredom to annoyance.

"Mother, what is wrong with you? You look like you have seen a ghost."

"She bought a house." Beatrice's voice was shrill, almost hysterical. "Emma bought a house. Across the street from us. She paid for it in full and she is renovating it and she froze my card and she is not coming back."

Derek set down his beer, his face going pale. "What are you talking about?"

"Angela told me. She heard it from someone. Emma bought the old farmhouse. The one right across from us. She has money, Derek, real money. And she is using it to build something, and she is not sharing it with us."

Derek stood up, his hands balled into fists. "That is impossible. She has no money. She has nothing."

"She has something. And we need to figure out how to get it back."

Rachel appeared in the doorway, her face pale, her eyes wide. "What is going on?"

Beatrice ignored her. She grabbed Derek's arm, her fingers digging in. "She is our gold mine, Derek. She always has been, we cannot just let her go. We need to get her back."

Derek stared at his mother, then at the window, then at the house across the street that he could now see was lit up with construction lights. He thought about the divorce papers he had signed so confidently. He thought about the way Emma had hung up on him without a word. He thought about the money he had assumed was safely his.

"She will come back," he said, but his voice lacked conviction. "She has to come back."

"Then you need to make her," his mother snapped. "Before it is too late."

Emma stood in her new bedroom, watching the lights flicker in the house across the street. She could see Derek's silhouette in the window, could see him pacing, could see his mother gesturing wildly. They were arguing, she could tell from the way they moved, the way they turned on each other, the way their shadows clashed and separated.

They knew about the house. They knew about the money and they were panicking.

She smiled and turned away from the window. The construction crew had finished for the night, but tomorrow they would start on the basement, reinforcing the walls, installing the ventilation system, creating the shelter that would keep her alive while the world outside burned.

Thirty-five days until the heat came, and he could hardly wait.