The memory of the assault flashed through my mind, but I pushed it down.

“Actually, Richard,” Wyatt said, drawing a second set of documents from his coat. “This house belongs to the estate.”

“The estate is mine,” my father spat, stepping toward us. “I am the executor.”

“Not anymore,” Wyatt said. “The probate court suspended your executorship two hours ago.”

The process server took a step back, positioning himself near the open door, watching us quietly.

“Arthur Bennett gave us the original deeds, Father,” I said.

My father flinched at the mention of Arthur’s name.

“Arthur is a senile old man,” my father sneered. “His word means nothing in a court of law.”

“His word didn’t freeze your accounts,” I replied. “The thirty years of bank statements he kept did.”

The hallway grew incredibly quiet.

“What bank statements?” my mother asked, looking between her husband and me.

“The records of the secondary ledger,” I said. “The ones Arthur kept in his safe.”

For three decades, my father had been pocketing the rent checks from our family’s commercial properties.