I held the blue folder in my lap, my fingers tracing the edges of the heavy paper.

This house had been a place where Brandon’s mistakes were always covered up, and my accomplishments were always ignored.

Today, that was going to change.

Arthur turned the car onto our street.

The large brick houses looked cold and distant in the autumn fog.

As we neared the driveway, I saw two cars parked outside.

My father’s black Mercedes was parked crookedly near the garage.

Beside it was my mother’s silver SUV.

“They’re both home,” I said, my throat dry.

“Remember,” Arthur said, turning off the engine. “Let me do the talking initially.”

“We need them to sign the transfer papers. If they refuse, we call the district attorney.”

I opened the car door and stepped out into the damp chill.

The smell of wet asphalt and dead leaves filled the air.

Arthur walked beside me, his briefcase clutched tightly in his hand.

We walked up the concrete steps to the front door.

The large mahogany door stood before us.

I didn’t knock.