“Go up to your playroom, sweeties,” I whispered. “Put on your headphones and play your game.”

They nodded and ran up the stairs, accustomed to their father’s outbursts.

I walked slowly down the hallway toward the study.

Graham was standing behind his desk, holding his phone to his ear with both hands.

“That is impossible,” he yelled into the receiver. “The property has been in the Ralston family name for over a decade.”

His face was bright red, a vein bulging in his temple.

“Who is the registered agent then?” he demanded. “Tell me the name of the LLC.”

He grabbed a pen, ready to write on a legal pad.

“Bluebird Trust?” he muttered, writing it down. “Who is behind Bluebird Trust?”

He listened for a moment, then slammed his hand down on the mahogany desk.

“What do you mean, it’s a double-blind entity registered in Delaware?” he shouted.

He was breathing heavily, his chest heaving under his wrinkled shirt.

“There has to be a mistake, Ted,” he said, his voice dropping to a desperate whisper. “My mother pays the property taxes on this house. I have the receipts.”