“Don’t Put On Your Red Coat Today,” My Grandson Told Me. Later That Day, I Saw the Reason – and My Stomach Dropped

Shadows of Suspicion

The world spun. I gripped the car door handle to steady myself.

“I didn’t sign anything, Tom. You have to believe me. I would never give up this farm.”

But even as I said it, doubt crept in. Had I signed something without realizing?

Vanessa was always putting papers in front of me during dinner. She asked me to sign updates to insurance policies, tax documents, or medical forms.

She worked in real estate. She handled paperwork for a living.

Had she tricked me into signing away my own home? “We’ll sort this out,” Tom said, but his voice lacked conviction. “Right now, I need you to come with me. We need to take your statement, and we need to find Danny.”

As I stood to follow him, I caught movement from the corner of my eye. A car was parked about 50 yards down the road, partially hidden by a stand of cottonwoods.

It was a dark blue sedan, and the engine was running. I could see the exhaust in the cold air.

And behind the wheel, watching us, was my daughter-in-law Vanessa. Our eyes met across the distance.

She didn’t wave or smile. She just stared at me with an expression I’d never seen before: cold, calculating, almost triumphant.

Then she put the car in gear and drove away. “Tom,” I said quietly. “I think I know who might have answers about that deed. But I don’t think you’re going to like what we find.”

The sheriff’s station smelled like burnt coffee and old paperwork. I’d been there twice before.

Once was when Frank reported our tractor stolen 30 years ago, and once was to renew my carry permit for the shotgun I kept in the barn for coyotes. Never was I there as a witness, and never was I connected to a murder.

Tom settled me in an interview room with pale green walls and a mirror I knew was one-way glass. Detective Merrick sat across from me, a recording device between us.

“Mrs. Foster, I need you to walk me through everything again. Every detail about Danny’s call.”

I repeated it all, but this time I forced myself to remember more. I thought about the background noise on Danny’s call.

There had been something—traffic maybe? Or was it wind?

No, it was water. Running water, like a creek or river.

“He wasn’t calling from home,” I said. “There was water in the background. He was outside somewhere.”

Merrick made a note. “Your grandson is 19. Does he have a history of getting into trouble?”

“Never. Danny’s a good boy. He’s studying engineering at the community college. He works part-time at the hardware store. He’s never even had a speeding ticket.”

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

I hesitated. This was family business and private matters, but a woman was dead and Danny was missing.

“His father, my son Robert, works long hours at the insurance agency. He’s not around much. And Vanessa…” I chose my words carefully. “Vanessa is very focused on appearances, on status. Danny and she have clashed lately.”

“About what?”

“About me. About the farm. Vanessa wants me to sell it and move into assisted living. Danny thinks I should keep it. They’ve argued about it at Sunday dinners.”

Merrick leaned forward. “Mrs. Foster, I need to ask you directly: do you believe your daughter-in-law could be involved in forging that property deed?”

Before I could answer, the door opened. Tom stepped in, his expression grim.

“Alexia, your son is here. He’s demanding to see you.”

Robert? “Let him in.”

“He brought a lawyer, Alexia. They’re saying you shouldn’t answer any more questions without legal representation of your own.”

My stomach dropped. “Why would I need a lawyer? I’m the victim here.”

Tom and Merrick exchanged glances. Merrick spoke carefully.

“Mrs. Foster, there are some complications. The forged deed, if it is forged, shows your signature.”

“Rachel Morrison, the victim, worked in County Records and had access to official documents. And your grandson, who warned you about the murder, has fled.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that some people might interpret this as you being involved in a scheme that went wrong. That maybe you and Danny and Rachel Morrison were working together, and something happened.”

The accusation hit me like a physical blow. “That’s ridiculous. Why would I forge a deed to give away my own property?”

“Unless you weren’t really giving it away,” Merrick said quietly. “Unless this was part of a plan to frame someone else. Your daughter-in-law, perhaps?”

“No, absolutely not. I would never.”

A Family Divided

The door opened again and Robert burst in. A thin man in an expensive suit trailed behind him.

“Mom, don’t say another word.”

My son looked disheveled. His normally neat hair was uncombed, and his tie was loose.

“This is Peter Mitchell. He’s 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, and Vanessa just told me about some property deed nonsense. We need to protect ourselves.”

“Protect ourselves from what?”

Peter Mitchell stepped forward smoothly. “Mrs. Foster, I strongly advise you not to answer any more questions without counsel present. Sheriff, Detective, we’re done here, unless you’re charging my client with something.”

Tom looked uncomfortable. “Alexia is free to go, but we will need to speak with her again.”

As Mitchell ushered me out, I caught Merrick’s eye. She was watching me with an expression I couldn’t read: suspicion, curiosity, or something else.

In the parking lot, Robert grabbed my arm. “Mom, what have you gotten yourself into?”

“Me, Robert? I haven’t gotten into anything. Someone tried to kill me this morning. That woman died because she was wearing a coat like mine.”

“That’s insane. Who would want to kill you?”

I looked at him directly. “Did you know about that property deed? The one that supposedly transfers the farm to you and Vanessa?”

His face went pale. “What? No. What deed?”

“The one filed at County Records three weeks ago with my signature on it, giving you and your wife my farm.”

“That’s impossible. I never…” He stopped, his expression changing. “Vanessa. Oh, Vanessa.”

“What about her?”

“She’s been after me for months to convince you to sell. She says the farm is sitting on prime development land and that we could make millions if we subdivided it.”

“I told her no. I told her you’d never agree. But she kept pushing.” He ran his hand through his hair. “You don’t think she would actually forge something?”

“Your wife was watching the crime scene this morning, Robert. She was parked down the road, just watching. And when she saw me, she drove away.”

Peter Mitchell interrupted. “Mrs. Foster, Mr. Foster, I really think you should continue this conversation somewhere more private. And you should both refrain from making any accusations until we have all the facts.”

Robert drove me home in silence. The farmhouse looked different somehow, as if I were seeing it through new eyes.

Someone wanted to take this from me. They had killed for it, or tried to.

As we pulled up the driveway, I saw another car parked near the barn. It was Vanessa’s white Lexus.

“What’s she doing here?” Robert’s voice was tight.

We found her in my kitchen. She was going through my filing cabinet.

“What the hell are you doing?” Robert demanded.

Vanessa spun around, startled. Her perfectly styled blonde hair didn’t move, and her makeup was flawless despite the early hour.

She’d always been beautiful in that calculated way, like a magazine advertisement for suburban success. “Robert, I was just… I was looking for documents to help your mother. Legal papers, insurance forms, anything that might prove she didn’t sign that deed.”

“By breaking into her house and going through her private files?”

“I have a key. Your mother gave it to me years ago for emergencies.”

I stepped forward, keeping my voice level. “Vanessa, did you forge my signature on a property deed?”

Her face transformed. The mask of concern cracked, revealing something cold underneath.

“Of course not. How dare you accuse me after everything I’ve done for this family? All the times I’ve tried to help you make sensible decisions.”

“Help me or help yourself?”

“Alexia, you’re being paranoid. This farm is a burden you can’t manage. I’ve been trying to protect you from yourself.”

“By stealing my property?”

“I haven’t stolen anything.” Her voice rose, sharp and brittle. “But maybe if someone did forge that deed, they were doing you a favor.”

“This place is falling apart. You’re falling apart. How long before you fall down those stairs and die alone, and no one finds you for days?”

Robert grabbed her arm. “Vanessa, stop it.”

She jerked away from him. “No, I won’t stop. Someone needs to tell her the truth.”

“She’s clinging to this farm like it’s a life raft, but it’s actually an anchor. It is dragging her down, dragging all of us down.”

“Get out,” I said quietly.

“What?”

“Get out of my house. Now.”

Vanessa’s eyes narrowed. “Fine. But you should know, Alexia, that deed is legal and binding.”

“I saw the documents myself this morning at County Records. Your signature is notarized and witnessed. Whether you remember signing it or not, you did.”

“And in Montana, a properly executed deed transfer is valid, even if the grantor claims they didn’t understand what they were signing.”

“How do you know that?” Robert asked slowly.

She smiled, sharp as a knife. “Because I looked it up, obviously. I work in real estate, remember? I know property law.”

The Code of the Strawberry Summer

After she left, Robert sank into a chair at the kitchen table with his head in his hands. “I’m sorry, Mom. I didn’t know. I swear I didn’t know.”

I believed him. Robert had always been weak and easily led, but not malicious.

His father used to joke that Robert was born without a backbone. He said that Robert bent whichever way the wind blew hardest.

“We need to find Danny,” I said.

“The police are looking for him.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of, Robert. Danny called to warn me. He saved my life.”

“But now he’s running, which means he’s afraid of something or someone.” My phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number.

Grandma, I’m sorry. I didn’t know it would go this far. Meet me at the old mill at midnight. Come alone. They’re watching you.

I showed Robert. His face went even paler. “You can’t go. It could be a trap.”

“It’s Danny.”

“You don’t know that. It could be anyone.”

But I did know, because the text ended with something only Danny and I would understand. Remember the strawberry summer.

The summer Danny was seven, we’d planted strawberries together in an entire patch behind the barn. We’d eaten so many that first harvest that we both got sick.

It became our private joke, our code for “trust me.” “I’m going,” I said.

“Then I’m coming with you.”

“No, the message said, ‘Come alone.'”

“Mom, please.”

“Robert, for once in your life, trust me to handle something.” My voice was harder than I intended.

“Your wife is involved in something criminal, your son is in danger, and someone tried to kill me this morning. I don’t have the luxury of being careful anymore.”

He left reluctantly, making me promise to call him the moment I got back. After his taillights disappeared down the driveway, I sat in the growing darkness, thinking.

The old mill was 15 miles away. It was an abandoned grain mill on the Clearwater River that had shut down 20 years ago.

Teenagers went there sometimes to party. Danny had gone there in high school, and I’d found beer cans in his car once.

But why there? And why midnight?

I tried calling Danny’s number again. It went straight to voicemail.

At 11:30, I grabbed my flashlight and headed for my truck. I wore the brown jacket instead of the red coat.

The night was moonless and thick with clouds threatening snow. As I backed out of the driveway, headlights flicked on behind me.

Someone had been waiting in the darkness, parked along the county road. They followed me, keeping a steady distance all the way to the highway.

The headlights stayed with me for 12 miles. They were never closing the distance and never falling back.

I realized it was professional surveillance, not some amateur following too close or hanging too far back. Whoever was behind me knew what they were doing.

I considered calling Robert or calling Tom, but Danny’s message had been explicit: “Come alone.” And that Strawberry Summer reference meant he was in real danger.

It was the kind of danger where police involvement might make things worse. Three miles from the old mill, I made a decision.

There was a turnoff ahead, a narrow logging road that cut through state forest land. Frank and I used to take it when we went hunting.

It looped back to the main highway about five miles south. I killed my headlights and swung onto the logging road, accelerating into the darkness.

My truck bounced over ruts and holes, with branches scraping the sides. Behind me, I saw the other vehicle’s headlights sweep past the turnoff.

Then their brake lights flared red as they realized I’d vanished. I didn’t slow down.

The forest pressed close on both sides. Without headlights, I was navigating by memory and moonlight that barely penetrated the clouds.

My heart hammered against my ribs. The logging road dumped me back onto the highway south of my tail.

I waited, engine idling, watching for approaching lights. There was nothing. I’d lost them.

I took a longer route to the mill, circling through back roads and checking constantly for followers. By the time I pulled into the crumbling parking lot, it was 12:15.

The old Clearwater mill rose against the sky like a tombstone. It was four stories of rotting wood and broken windows.

The river rushed past it, swollen with snowmelt, and the sound filled the darkness. My flashlight beam cut through the night as I approached the main entrance.

“Danny,” I called softly.

There was no answer, just the river and wind through empty spaces. I stepped inside.

The floor was covered with debris, broken glass, and old equipment. There was graffiti on every wall.

My flashlight found stairs leading up, and I climbed carefully, testing each step.