Pierre, the driver, gestured towards the door with a gentle nod, his eyes reflecting both sorrow and understanding. “He asked me to take care of everything,” he said softly, his voice carrying the assurance of someone who had long awaited this day. “Inside, you will find what you need.”

With trembling hands, I pushed open the door. Inside, the cottage was warm and inviting, a stark contrast to the sterile luxury of the penthouse Amanda had just inherited. The walls were lined with books, and a cozy fire crackled in the hearth. On the mantelpiece was a framed photograph of Richard as a child, his face alight with joy. I smiled through tears, the memory of my boy flooding back.

On a small wooden table by the window, a letter awaited me, its envelope bearing the same handwriting that had sent me across an ocean. I picked it up, my fingers tracing the familiar loops and curves of Richard’s script.

“Dear Mom,” it began, “If you’re reading this, it means I’ve left the world a little sooner than either of us expected. I’m sorry for the pain you’re feeling right now. I wish I could be there to hold your hand, but I hope this place offers you some comfort.”

He went on to explain his love for this hidden sanctuary in the Alps, a place he had discovered during a college trip and had visited secretly over the years. “This is where I felt free,” he wrote. “Where I could escape the pressures of the world and just be Richard. I wanted you to have it, to experience that same freedom.”

But there was more. Richard’s letter hinted at suspicions he had about his business dealings, suggesting that someone close to him might have had a hand in his death. “I can’t prove anything,” he admitted, “but I trust you to follow your instincts. You’ve always been the best detective.”

As I finished reading, I understood that my journey was not just about finding peace but also about seeking justice for my son. Richard’s death was no accident, and as his mother, I owed it to him to uncover the truth.

I looked out of the window at the breathtaking view of the mountains, a sense of purpose filling the void that grief had left behind. In this serene refuge, I would find the strength to face whatever lay ahead. Richard had given me more than just a plane ticket; he had given me a chance to rewrite the story of his life and mine.

With renewed determination, I turned back to Pierre, who was waiting patiently by the door. “Let’s get started,” I said, feeling the power of the moment as I embraced the path my son had set before me. “We have work to do.”