“What is that?” she asked, her eyebrow arching.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone.

The screen lit up, showing a pending email draft from my attorney.

I held it up so she could see the heading.

“What is that?” Celeste asked, her smile fading.

Before I could answer, the front door behind me opened.

A gust of cold wind swept into the hallway.

I turned around.

Standing in the doorway, wet with rain and wrapped in a dark mink coat, was my mother.

Eleanor Whitmore stepped into the house.

She looked at me, then at Celeste, and finally at Maren.

“It seems we are all here,” my mother said.

Eleanor closed the door behind her, the heavy latch clicking into place.

Water dripped from the hem of her dark mink coat, pooling on the polished hardwood floor.

She did not look down at the water.

She kept her eyes on me, cold and unyielding.

“You always did have a dramatic streak, Adrian,” she said.

Maren stepped back, her hand resting on the banister of the stairs.

Her knuckles were white.