My father was standing by the fireplace, his hands empty now, breathing heavily.

The metal canister of gasoline sat on the stone hearth, unopened.

On the desk in front of my mother lay Wyatt’s open laptop and a stack of printed documents.

“Get out of my house,” my father spat, though his eyes darted nervously to Harper’s badge.

“Mr. Davis, you are under investigation for conspiracy and felony assault,” Harper said, her voice deadpan.

“I suggest you step away from the desk.”

My mother didn’t move.

She slowly folded her hands over the papers.

“You have no business here, Officer,” she said, her voice dripping with artificial warmth.

“We are simply handling a private family matter.”

“Private?” I said, stepping forward from behind Wyatt.

My mother’s eyes locked onto mine, cold and unyielding.

“You’re alive,” Melanie whispered from the window, her face turning pale.

“No thanks to you,” I said. “Or the thugs you hired to put me in the hospital.”

My father took a step toward me, but Wyatt instantly blocked his path.

“Don’t even think about it, Richard,” Wyatt warned, his fists clenched at his sides.