Hand over the café keys, Mara, or I’ll drag you through court until you’re

The man who walked in wasn’t a customer. He was Mr. Halvorsen, my father’s old attorney, carrying the same battered leather briefcase he’d carried to Dad’s funeral. Diane’s smile flickered. “This is a private family matter,” she snapped. “Actually,” Halvorsen said, setting the briefcase on the counter, “it became my matter the moment you walked in here making threats. Mara called me from the back office twelve minutes ago.” He clicked the latches open. Inside were the originals of the estate documents Diane had signed in 2021. “You waived all claim to the café, the recipes, the trademark, and the building, Diane. In exchange for the lake house, valued then at four hundred thousand dollars.” Diane lifted her chin. “Property values change. I’m entitled to reassessment.” Halvorsen smiled the way a cat smiles at a slow bird. “Funny you mention property. We’ve been trying to reach you for six months. The lake house sits on a parcel your late husband never fully transferred into the marital trust. Which means when you sold it last spring for six hundred and twenty thousand dollars, you sold property that legally still belonged to his daughter.” The blood left Diane’s face in one long slow tide. Customers had stopped pretending not to listen. “Mara has agreed,” Halvorsen continued, “not to pursue criminal fraud charges, provided you repay the proceeds in full, plus interest, within ninety days. Otherwise, we file Monday.” Diane’s mouth opened and closed like a landed fish. I finally spoke, quiet, the way Dad used to speak when he’d already won. “You called this place a hobby, Diane. Turns out the hobby kept better records than you did.” She grabbed her white blazer off the stool and pushed past two teenagers filming on their phones. The bell above the door chimed again, softer this time, almost like an apology. I turned back to my line of waiting customers, smiled, and asked who was next.