The sound of my walking cane snapping in half was louder than the music.

On Monday morning, a team of structural engineers, certified property inspectors, and forensic appraisers descended upon 4821 Elmwood Drive.

I stood in the entryway with Karen Higgins and the lead structural engineer, a no-nonsense man named Greg Vance—Martin’s younger brother. Greg was holding a digital thermal scanner and a clipboard.

"Grace, you need to see this," Greg said, motioning for me to follow him down the basement stairs.

I leaned on my falcon cane, taking the steps one by one, careful not to jar my hip. The basement had always been Dad’s domain—a cavernous space that had once housed his pool table, wine cellar, and private office.

Greg pointed his industrial flashlight toward the main load-bearing beam that spanned the center of the foundation.

"Your sister’s contractors started unauthorized demo work down here three weeks ago," Greg said grimly, illuminating a section of raw concrete where two steel support jacks had been precariously wedged under the subfloor. "They removed two critical lally columns to make room for Brooke’s planned home theater expansion."

I stared at the exposed wood and the bowed crossbeam. "Is the house structurally compromised?"

"If they had loaded the main floor with the granite countertops Brooke ordered for the kitchen remodel? Yes. The living room floor would have buckled within six months. The entire western wing of the house could have suffered progressive structural collapse."

I felt a cold sweat prickle my brow.

Brooke had been so obsessed with turning the house into an Instagram showpiece that she had hired uncertified, cut-rate subcontractors to knock out support columns without permits, without architectural review, and without my knowledge.

"How much to restore the structural integrity?" I asked.

"Thirty-five thousand dollars to install heavy-duty steel I-beams and repour the footing pads," Greg said. "And that's before we even talk about the pool house masonry mess."

We walked back upstairs to the ground floor.

Elaine was sitting in the formal dining room, surrounded by cardboard boxes. She was packing her collection of vintage porcelain figurines, wrapping each one in tissue paper with slow, mechanical movements. She looked eighty years old. The youthful, manicured vanity she had maintained for decades had completely sloughed away, leaving behind a hollow, exhausted shell.

She looked up as I entered.

"Grace," she said, her voice barely a murmur. "Brooke’s bail was set at five thousand dollars. Uncle Robert refused to pay it. He told her she was a disgrace to the family."

"Robert always protects his own wallet first, Mom. You knew that."

Elaine placed a delicate porcelain shepherdess into a box. "Daniel’s lawyer served her with divorce papers in the county holding cell. Brayden is staying with Daniel’s parents."

"Whispering Pines is ready for you tomorrow," I said, leaning against my cane. "The movers arrive at eight."

Elaine looked around the dining room—at the crystal chandelier, the crown molding, the hand-painted wallpaper Dad had imported from France when their business was booming in the nineties.

"I gave my whole life to this house, Grace," she whispered, tears rolling down her cheeks. "I hosted every holiday here. I watched you and Brooke take your first steps in the foyer."

"No, Mom," I said gently, but with absolute firmness. "You gave your life to an image. Dad died broke, Brooke tried to have you committed to a home, and you let Brooke break my cane because you were too cowardly to tell her the truth. The house didn't do this to you. Your choices did."