Mój siostrzeniec zadzwonił do mnie o 5 rano: „Babciu, proszę… nie zakładaj dziś czerwonego płaszcza”. Jego głos drżał. „Dlaczego?” – zapytałam. „Wkrótce zrozumiesz” – mruknął. O 9 rano poszłam złapać autobus. Kiedy tam dotarłam, zamarłam – i zrozumiałam dlaczego.

My knees went weak. Tom caught my elbow, his grip firm and steadying. Through the windshield of his patrol car, I could see them photographing something covered with a white tarp. A shape that was unmistakably human.

“Tom,” I said, my voice thin and strange in my own ears, “Danny called me this morning. At five o’clock. He told me not to wear my red coat today.”

The sheriff’s expression shifted instantly from concerned neighbor to focused lawman. “Your grandson called you? What exactly did he say?”

I repeated the conversation word for word, my hands shaking as I spoke.

“Where is Danny now?”

“I don’t know. He wouldn’t tell me. He sounded terrified, Tom. I’ve never heard him like that.”

“When did you last see him?”

“Sunday dinner. Three days ago.” But even as I said it, I wondered. Had Danny seemed normal, or had I been too caught up in the usual family tensions to notice? Sunday dinners had become increasingly uncomfortable lately. My son Robert and his wife Vanessa had been pressuring me relentlessly to sell the farm.

“Mom, you’re not getting any younger,” Robert would say, always parroting whatever Vanessa had told him earlier. “This place is too much for one person. You need to think about your future.”

But they didn’t understand. This wasn’t just property. This was Frank’s legacy. This was every sunrise we’d watched together, every fence we’d mended, every calf we’d delivered in the middle of a Montana blizzard. This was my life.

A young woman in a detective’s badge approached us, her dark hair pulled back severely. “Sheriff, we need to interview her now.”

“This is Detective Roxane Merrick,” Tom said. “She’s with the state police. Roxane, this is Alexia Foster. The victim was found at her regular bus stop, wearing a coat identical to hers.”

Detective Merrick’s sharp eyes assessed me quickly. “Mrs. Foster, I understand your grandson may have information about this incident?”

I explained again about Danny’s call, my voice steadier now though my hands still trembled. She exchanged a meaningful glance with Tom.

“We need to speak with Danny as soon as possible. Can you call him now?”

I tried. The phone rang once, then went straight to voicemail. I tried three more times with the same result. “He’s turned it off,” I said.

“Or someone turned it off for him,” Merrick said quietly.

The implication hung in the cold morning air like frost.

“Mrs. Foster,” Tom said, his voice dropping to that careful tone people use when they’re about to say something difficult, “who specifically would know that you take the bus from this stop on Tuesday and Friday mornings?”

I thought about it. “My family, of course. Robert and Vanessa and Danny. The other regular riders—there’s usually old Mr. Chen and sometimes Martha Beckworth. The bus driver, obviously. The librarians in town know my schedule. I suppose… half the town, really. It’s not a secret.”

“And who would know about that specific red coat?”

“Everyone who’s ever seen me. I wear it all the time in cold weather. I bought it specifically to be visible.”

Tom and Merrick exchanged another look, and I saw something pass between them that made my stomach clench.

“What is it? What aren’t you telling me?”

Tom took a breath. “Alexia, someone was killed here, wearing a coat identical to yours, at the exact location where you would normally be standing at nine o’clock on a Tuesday morning. And your grandson called to warn you hours before the body was discovered. We need to consider the possibility that you were the intended target.”

The words crashed over me like icy water. Someone had tried to kill me. And somehow, impossibly, Danny had known.

“There’s something else,” Merrick said, pulling out an evidence bag. Inside was a manila envelope, water-stained and spattered with what looked horribly like blood. “This was found in the victim’s coat pocket. Inside is a property deed.”

She held it up so I could see through the plastic. The document had official seals and signatures. And there, in neat legal text, I read: “Property Deed Transfer—Foster Ranch—320 acres—from Alexia Foster to Robert and Vanessa Foster.”

“That’s impossible,” I said, my voice rising. “I would never sign away this farm. That’s not my signature.”

But even as I protested, doubt crept in like cold through a cracked window. Vanessa was always putting papers in front of me during Sunday dinners—insurance forms, tax documents, things she said needed my signature. She worked in real estate, handled complicated paperwork all the time. Had she slipped something in? Had I signed without reading carefully?

“We’ll need a handwriting expert to examine it,” Tom said. “But Alexia, this deed is dated last month. It’s been notarized and filed with the county.”

“Filed? When?”

“Three weeks ago.”

Before I could process this, Tom’s radio erupted with urgent voices. He pressed it to his ear, his face darkening with each word. When he looked back at me, I saw something new in his eyes. Not just concern anymore. Suspicion.

“Alexia, I need you to come down to the station with me. Now.”

“Why? What’s happened?”

“We just identified the victim through her phone and ID. Her name was Rachel Morrison. She worked at County Records.” He paused. “According to her phone logs, she’d been in contact with your grandson Danny multiple times over the past two weeks. And Mrs. Foster—she had your name and address written in her planner for this morning’s meeting.”

The implications multiplied like cracks in ice. Rachel Morrison. County Records. The same office where property deeds were filed. Danny had been talking to her. And now she was dead, wearing my coat, at my bus stop, carrying a deed that would transfer my property to my son and daughter-in-law.

As I turned to follow Tom to his patrol car, movement caught my eye. About fifty yards down the road, partially hidden behind a line of cottonwoods, sat a dark blue sedan. Behind the wheel, watching us with binoculars, was my daughter-in-law, Vanessa.

Our eyes met for just a moment. She didn’t wave, didn’t try to hide. She just stared with an expression I’d never seen on her carefully made-up face before—cold, calculating, almost triumphant. Like someone watching a chess game where they’d just moved their queen into position for checkmate.

Then she put the car in gear and drove away, slowly and deliberately, as if she had all the time in the world.

The sheriff’s station smelled like burnt coffee, old paperwork, and the peculiar institutional scent of government buildings everywhere. Detective Merrick led me to an interview room painted in that particular shade of institutional green that was supposed to be calming but only made me think of hospitals and morgues.

“Mrs. Foster, I need you to walk me through everything again,” she said, setting up a recording device. “Start with Sunday dinner. Every detail you can remember.”

I closed my eyes, forcing myself back to three days ago. “It was around four o’clock. I’d made pot roast, Frank’s recipe. Robert and Vanessa arrived at four-thirty. Danny came separately, around five. He’d been at basketball practice.”

“How did everyone seem?”

“Robert was quiet. He’s always quiet when Vanessa’s there. She does most of the talking.” I paused, remembering. “Actually, Danny seemed off. Distracted. He kept checking his phone. Vanessa made a comment about young people and their devices.”

“Did Danny and Vanessa interact at all?”

“Not really. Danny’s been pulling away from her for the past few months. He used to call her Aunt Vanessa, but now he barely looks at her.” I thought about it more carefully. “Actually, there was a moment. Vanessa went to the bathroom, and when she came back, her purse was open. Danny was standing near it. She gave him this look, Tom. Like pure ice.”

“Did anyone take anything? Notice anything missing?”

“I don’t know. We ate dinner, they pushed their usual script about selling the farm, and then they left around seven. Danny stayed to help with dishes, but he was quiet. Withdrawn.”

“Did he say anything unusual?”

I thought hard. “He asked me if I’d signed any papers lately. I said Vanessa brings things for me to sign all the time—insurance, tax stuff. He asked if I’d read them carefully. I told him of course I had, but…” I trailed off. “I haven’t, have I? Not always. Vanessa would put a stack in front of me, point to the signature lines, and I’d sign while she was talking about something else. She was always in such a hurry.”

Merrick leaned forward. “Mrs. Foster, when Danny called you this morning, do you remember any background noise?”

I closed my eyes again, replaying those terrifying moments. “Yes. Water. Running water. Not a sink or a shower. More like… a creek or a river. And wind. He was outside somewhere.”

“What’s his relationship like with his parents? Specifically with Vanessa?”

The question made me uncomfortable. “My son Robert works long hours at the energy company. He’s been married to Vanessa for twelve years. She’s very… focused. On appearances, on social status, on money. She came from nothing and she’s determined to have everything. Danny and she have clashed lately.”

“About what?”

“About me. About the farm. Vanessa thinks I’m stubborn and unreasonable for not wanting to sell. She’s made it clear she thinks I’m a burden on Robert. And Danny’s been defensive of me. A few weeks ago, I heard them arguing in the driveway. Vanessa said something about Danny not understanding ‘what’s at stake,’ and Danny said she was being cruel.”

“Mrs. Foster, I’m going to ask you something difficult. Do you believe your daughter-in-law could be involved in forging that property deed?”

Before I could answer, Tom stepped into the room. “Alexia, your son is here. He’s demanding to see you, and he brought a lawyer with him.”

Robert burst in moments later, a thin man in an expensive suit trailing behind him. My son looked terrible—his face was pale, his eyes red-rimmed. “Mom, don’t say another word. This is Peter Mitchell, a criminal defense attorney. We’re leaving now.”

“Robert, I don’t need a defense attorney. I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“Mother, a woman is dead. The police think Danny might be involved somehow. And Vanessa just called me about some crazy story about a property deed. We need to protect ourselves. All of us.”

In the parking lot, I grabbed Robert’s arm, stopping him. “Did you know about that property deed? The one supposedly giving you and Vanessa my farm?”

His face went from pale to gray. “What? No. What deed? Mom, what are you talking about?”

“A deed dated last month, transferring my property to you and your wife. It was found on the dead woman. Rachel Morrison. She worked at County Records.”

Robert stared at me, and I watched realization dawn in his eyes. “Vanessa,” he whispered. “Oh God. Mom, Vanessa’s been after me for months to convince you to sell. She says the farm is sitting on prime development land, that we could make millions if we subdivided and sold lots. The whole valley is being developed. She showed me projections, profits. I told her you’d never agree, but she kept pushing.”

“When was this?”