My mother’s empire was cracking, and she was trying to drag my firm down with her.

“Where are we going?” Maren asked, her hand resting on the door handle.

“My cottage in Ogunquit,” I said. “The keys are in the glove compartment. It’s secure, and nobody knows the address except my lawyer.”

Maren reached over and opened the glove box, her fingers trembling slightly as she found the brass key ring.

“We need to talk to them before they see it on the news,” she whispered, gesturing toward the back seat.

“I know,” I said.

I took the exit toward the coastal route, watching the headlights behind us finally pull straight ahead on the interstate.

We had shaken them, for now.

The rain started to fall harder, drumming against the windshield as we drove through the dark pine woods of Maine.

An hour later, I pulled into the gravel driveway of the small, cedar-shingle cottage.

The Atlantic Ocean was a black void just beyond the rocky lawn.

I turned off the engine, and the sudden silence of the cabin felt heavy.

“We’re here,” I said.