He was walking slowly, deliberately, as if he knew we had nowhere to go.

The stone bridge was too narrow for Alden to turn the car around without hitting the guardrails.

Behind us lay the dark, empty stretch of the driveway leading back to the main house.

To our left and right, the creek was rising, rushing over the black rocks of the ravine.

“The power of attorney,” Alden said, his eyes fixed on the windshield.

“He has a power of attorney with your signature on it,” he added.

My breath caught in my throat, the air in the sedan suddenly feeling cold.

“My signature?” I asked. “I never signed anything.”

“I know,” Alden said. “He forged it.”

The flashlight beam hit my eyes, and I squinted, raising a hand to block the glare.

Graham stopped just outside my window, his shadow looming over the door.

He tapped the heavy metal casing of the flashlight against the glass.

The sharp, metallic sound vibrated through the frame of the door and into my shoulder.

“Open the door,” Graham called out.