"Yes," she whispered.
"Leave," Dean said hard. "Leave now."
Martha backed away from the door, chain still latched, and moved down the hallway fast, careful over broken boards. Her slippers skidded on wet wood.
She grabbed the tin box with one hand, the stack of copied bank statements with the other, and stuffed them into a canvas tote like she was grabbing food in a fire.
Another crack sounded behind her, wood complaining, the deputy testing the frame. Martha's heart hammered. She forced herself not to look back.
She moved into the kitchen where rain didn't fall and yanked open a drawer with shaking fingers. Her hand closed on a second set of keys, spare car key, spare padlock key, spare everything her husband had insisted on because the world loved taking what you needed most.
She went to the back door and froze. A shadow passed across the small window. Someone was already moving around her house.
Martha's blood went cold. "Dean," she hissed into the phone. "Someone's behind the house."
"Who?" Dean demanded.
"I don't know," Martha said. "I can't see."
A voice outside, too close. "Mrs. Caldwell?"
Gordon Pell.
Martha's stomach sank. Of course he was here. Of course the developer showed up the moment law enforcement found a way to say they weren't bullying her.
Pell's voice remained calm, almost gentle. "Martha, please don't do anything that makes this harder. We're trying to help you."
Martha held the tote tight against her ribs. "Get away from my back door," she called, voice shaking despite her effort.
Pell stepped into view through the window, rain beating on his dry jacket like it couldn't penetrate. He smiled as if they were in a boardroom.
"I brought a relocation packet. Just sign and you'll be in a safe place tonight."
Martha stared at him through the glass. "You moved fast."
Pell's smile didn't falter. "Disasters require swift action."
The sound at the front of the house changed, wood splintering, a crack that made Martha flinch. The chain was about to be meaningless.
Pell must have heard it, too. His voice softened, coaxing.
"Martha, if you cooperate, this ends peacefully. If you don't, the sheriff will have to do what he has to do. Nobody wants you dragged out in front of everyone."
Martha's breath came shallow. Dragged out. That was the image they wanted.
An old woman pulled from her own home, labeled unstable, made into proof that the county was protecting her from herself.
She raised the phone. "Dean," she said, forcing each word steady. "They have Pell at my back door, sheriff at my front. They're surrounding my house."
Dean's voice turned low, dangerous in its calm. "Do not open either door."
Martha stared at the back door handle. If she opened it, Pell would be there. If she didn't, the sheriff would be in the house in seconds.