“He was grandmother’s attorney,” Graham sneered.

“And now he works for the estate,” I replied. “Which you do not own.”

Graham took a step back, wiping his face with the back of his hand.

“You think you’re clever,” he said, his voice dropping an octave.

“But you’re playing a game you don’t understand.”

“I understand forgery,” I said.

“I know about the power of attorney, Graham.”

He didn’t blink, and the flashlight beam didn’t waver.

“A piece of paper is only as good as the person who challenges it,” Graham said.

“And you don’t have the resources to fight this in court.”

He leaned closer to the open crack in the window, his breath fogging the glass.

“By the time a judge looks at your signature, the trees on the lower pasture will be gone,” he said.

“The concrete will be poured.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” I said.

“Try me,” he whispered.

He looked at Alden.

“Drive back to the house, Alden,” Graham ordered. “Now.”

Alden looked at me, his eyes pleading for a way out.

“Don’t do it,” I told Alden.