Arthur Pendelton was my late grandmother’s estate lawyer, a man my parents had barred from our house for a year.

Before I could process the words, the front door suddenly splintered open with a loud, deafening crash.

Heavy boots trampled into the hardwood foyer.

Men in dark windbreakers with yellow letters flooded into the living room.

“Nobody move!” an officer shouted, drawing a weapon.

My father reached desperately for his briefcase on the desk, but a detective grabbed his wrist.

“Step away from the desk, Mr. Parker,” the detective ordered, slamming him against the wood.

I backed into the dark shadow of the hallway, clutching my phone against my chest.

The blue lights strobed against the walls as my mother screamed.

I looked down at the screen one last time.

The second will.

What had they done?

I backed further into the dark hallway, my boots silent on the runner rug.

The shouting in the living room grew louder as the officers forced my father into a chair.

My mother was on her knees, crying and trying to wipe the spilled coffee off the carpet with her sleeve.