The lock turned with a sharp, metallic click.

The door swung open, and my mother stood there, her eyes red-rimmed and her face twisted in fury.

But when she saw me standing there, flanked by Wyatt and the process server, her expression froze into sheer terror.

“Sadie,” she whispered.

“What is this?”

The process server stepped forward, raising the envelope.

Before he could speak, the sharp, persistent ringing of the landline telephone echoed loudly from the kitchen behind her.

My mother glanced back into the dark house, her face pale.

She looked back at me, her eyes wide.

“What did you do?” she whispered again.

The process server stepped past her, his boots heavy on the hardwood floor of the entryway.

“Helen Davis?” he asked, his voice flat and professional.

My mother did not answer him.

She was staring past his shoulder, her eyes locked on me.

“Sadie,” she said again, her voice cracking. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I have every right to be here, Mother,” I said.

The landline in the kitchen kept ringing, a shrill, old-fashioned sound that vibrated through the walls.