Wyatt looked over at me from the driver’s seat, his hand resting gently on mine.

“Are you ready for this?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said. “Let’s go.”

As we drove through the snowy streets of Columbus, the streetlights cast long shadows over the snowbanks.

We pulled up to the curb outside the grand, colonial-style family home.

The lights were burning brightly inside, casting a warm, deceptive glow onto the pristine lawn.

It looked like the picture-perfect home of a happy family.

But I knew the rot that lived behind the front door.

I opened the car door and stepped out into the freezing night.

A black sedan pulled up behind us, its headlights cutting through the darkness.

A man in a dark overcoat stepped out, carrying a thick legal envelope in his hand.

It was the professional process server Wyatt had arranged.

He gave us a brief, professional nod.

“Are we ready?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said, walking up the brick pathway.

I reached out and pressed the brass doorbell, hearing the familiar chimes echo through the foyer inside.

Heavy, hurried footsteps approached the door.