“This belongs to my father,” I said.

I looked him in the eyes.

“And so does everything else you tried to take.”

Just then, the front door of the house opened again.

A figure stood in the entryway, silhouette dark against the fog.

It was Cole Brantley.

He was holding a leather briefcase, his face pale as he looked at the deputy.

He stopped dead in his tracks.

Cole stood frozen, his fingers gripping the worn handle of his leather briefcase.

“What is going on here?” Cole asked, his voice barely a whisper.

Malcolm stepped toward him, his boots heavy on the hardwood floor.

“Mr. Brantley,” Malcolm said. “Set the briefcase on the table, please.”

Cole looked at Evan, then at me, and finally at the deputy.

He didn’t move.

“Now, Mr. Brantley,” Malcolm repeated, his hand resting near his side.

Cole slowly walked forward and placed the briefcase next to the cold bottle of Lafite.

Evan took a step back, his face draining of color.

“Don’t say a word, Cole,” Evan muttered.

“Shut up, Evan,” I said.

My voice sounded cold, even to me.