“I think breakfast is over.”

Bradley stared.

“You’re throwing us out?”

“I’m asking you to leave.”

“Mom—”

“Take the muffins.”

Ashley did.

Ten minutes later, their SUV disappeared down the sandy road.

I stood alone in the kitchen.

Four small pieces of tape remained on the refrigerator.

I carefully peeled them away.

Then I grabbed my purse and drove to the county offices.

I told myself I only wanted to verify something.

That wasn’t true.

Somewhere between removing that schedule and getting into my car, I had stopped checking.

I had started acting.

At the property-records counter, a woman named Denise searched my cottage address.

“You’re Marianne Whitcomb?”

“Yes.”

She asked for identification.

Then she looked back at her screen.

“You’re the sole titled owner.”

Relief washed through me.

It lasted about four seconds.

Then Denise frowned.

“Have you authorized anyone to operate a short-term rental from this property?”

I froze.

“No.”

“There’s a pending seasonal rental registration attached to this address.”

“A what?”

“It was filed about six weeks ago.”

My hands went cold.

“By whom?”

She hesitated.

“Whitcomb Lake Hospitality.”

I had never heard of it.

“There’s a contact person,” Denise added.

“Ashley Whitcomb?”

Her expression answered before she did.

She printed the filing.

There was my cottage address.

Ashley’s email.

A proposed occupancy of ten people.

Weekly rentals.

Estimated seasonal revenue:

**$24,000.**