The heavy brass knocker on the front door vibrated through the house.

Nobody in the room moved.

Harper Sloane stood near the corner, her iPad still clutched in her hands.

She looked at me with a mixture of shock and professional calculation.

“Is the sale completely off, then?” Harper asked quietly.

“Yes,” I said.

“Blackthorn Ridge is not for sale,” I said.

“It never will be,” I said.

The front door clicked open downstairs, followed by the sound of heavy boots.

Mrs. Gable, the housekeeper, was speaking in muffled tones in the foyer.

A moment later, the footsteps sounded on the grand wooden staircase.

They grew louder as they approached the conference room.

Two state troopers entered the room, their leather duty belts creaking.

The lead investigator, a tall man named Vance, looked around the room.

His eyes lingered on Graham, then on Alden, and finally on me.

“Which one of you is Graham Vance?” the investigator asked.

“I am Graham Vance,” Graham said, his voice shaking.

“And I am his attorney,” Graham added, pointing at Alden.

“I am not representing him in this matter,” Alden said immediately.