The folder your family hopes you made.
Accounts, policies, passwords, wishes, and the letter you keep meaning to write. In Case walks you through building the file your family will open on the worst day of their lives — fifteen sections of plain questions, most of them answerable in an afternoon.
It is encrypted on your device and nowhere else, with a clear handover path for the people you name: a printed sheet for the drawer, an encrypted export for your executor, or the phone itself. There is no server holding it, which is the only version of that promise anyone can actually keep.
§ I — The program
What In Case holds, what it refuses to keep, and the promise attached to the price.
The reason the folder never gets made is that a blank document does not know what to ask. In Case asks: where the will is, who holds the mortgage, which policy pays out, what should be cancelled first, who to telephone before anyone else.
Fifteen sections, in plain language, with no legal jargon anywhere in them. Start with the account list and the who-to-call list — the first-48-hours material — and let the rest come over a few evenings.
The structureThe vault is encrypted on your phone, behind your passcode and Face ID. There is no In Case account, no cloud sync, and no copy on our side of anything you write.
So we cannot read it, cannot restore it, and cannot be made to hand it over — not by a subpoena, not by whoever buys this company, not by whoever breaches it. There is nothing here to take, and that is a fact about the architecture rather than a policy we could quietly revise.
No serversA one-page emergency sheet printed for the drawer. An encrypted export left with your executor. The passcode shared with one person you trust. You decide who, and when, and you can change your mind without asking us.
In Case also gives you the exact wording that authorises access to your digital accounts, to hand to your attorney — because the platforms' own tools stop well short of your passwords, and a will is the wrong place to write them down.
The handoffIf this company closed tomorrow, your vault would keep opening, exporting and printing. It runs offline and depends on nothing we operate.
A cloud binder cannot honestly say that. Its continuity is a promise about a company; yours should be a fact about your phone.
It outlives usOne payment of $59 — no renewal on your estate. Not a trial that becomes a subscription, not a tier with the useful sections held back. You buy the vault and the vault is yours, through every release that follows it.
Thirty days, money back, no reasons needed. If it turns out you wanted the cloud version, or the advisor sitting beside you, write and the payment comes back — and your vault stays on your device either way, because it was never anywhere else.
A subscription that lapses would defeat the purpose. The one file meant to outlast you should not stop working because a card expired, and we will not add an account later, will not add advertising later, and will not sell the house's word on that to anyone who intends to break it.
The house's wordThe measure of a vault like this is not how complete it looks on the evening you finish it. It is whether, on a day nobody plans for, the people you love can open one drawer and find that you had already thought about them.
Standing prohibitions
Five things In Case will not do, held as terms of the program rather than as a roadmap that can quietly change.
§ II — The vault
The whole vault, bought outright, on the day you buy it.
$59
Pay once and the vault is yours — every release after it, for as long as it keeps opening. Less than a year of the subscription alternatives, and then nothing to renew, nothing to forget, and nothing to cancel at two in the morning.
The terms
§ III — Questions
The five questions people actually send before they will put their family's whole map on a phone.
However you decide, and you decide in advance. In Case prints a one-page emergency sheet your family can read without your phone, your passcode, or our permission — where the documents are, which policies exist, who to call first. Beyond that you can leave an encrypted export with your executor or share the passcode with one person you trust. There is no back door on our side, because there is no our side: we hold nothing to unlock.
No. It is the map, not the legal instrument. A will decides who inherits and needs an attorney to be valid; it also goes to work in probate, months later. In Case is for the first hours and days — where the will is, what exists, who to telephone. Most families have some of the legal pieces and none of the where-is-everything part, and that gap is the whole of what this fills. Nothing in In Case is legal advice.
No, provided you have done the two things the app is built around. The printed emergency sheet survives any dead battery, and your vault exports as an encrypted file you can keep wherever you keep important documents. On-device means we cannot lose it or leak it; it does not mean you get only one copy. It means you control every copy there is.
Because a free tier is priced somewhere else. The category standard is a yearly subscription — Everplans is $99.99 a year — attached to the single most sensitive file a family owns, held on someone else's servers, and it degrades the moment the card stops working. In Case takes $59 once and then has no reason to want anything further from you. That is the entire business model, stated plainly.
Never. There is no login, no email address, and no profile — nothing to sign up for and nothing for us to leak, because we never receive it. The seven-day trial and the free core ask for nothing at all. Paying unlocks by App Store purchase, or by pasting the key from a web receipt; either route flips the same switch on a vault we still cannot see.
The register
Be written in for the day In Case opens.
One address, kept on our ledger and used once: the day the vault ships. No newsletter follows it, and it is never attached to anything you put in the vault — we do not have the vault.