“I need a few minutes alone,” I told Dina.

“Do not let Grant or Helen know I received this.”

“I won’t say a word,” Dina promised.

I turned and walked into the small reading room off the main lobby.

It was a quiet space, lined with my mother’s personal collection of historical books and legal reference guides.

I sat down at the small oak writing table near the window.

The rain beat a steady, frantic rhythm against the glass.

I broke the red security seal on the envelope and pulled out the contents.

Inside was a stack of certified public records from the county clerk’s office.

They were property deeds, land use permits, and historical filings related to the Whitaker estate.

I flipped through the pages, my eyes scanning the dry legal jargon.

At first, nothing seemed unusual.

It was a standard paper trail of the properties my mother had managed over the last thirty years.

But then my eyes caught a building permit application filed just three weeks before her passing.

The permit was for a structural modification, but it had been filed under a commercial registry rather than residential.