“Your mother is mistaken,” I said.

“We will see about that,” Grant said, tossing his keyring onto the wooden table.

“I am going to the guesthouse.”

“You need to be off the property by tomorrow at noon,” Lena told him.

Grant did not answer as he walked out of the gallery, his footsteps fading down the long corridor.

I stood in the center of the room, looking at the empty space on the wall.

The portrait of Julian Whitaker lay on its side near the open crate.

I walked over and picked it up, wiping a speck of dust from the glass.

“Are you alright, Nora?” Lena asked.

“I am fine,” I said.

“We need to get the locks changed tonight.”

“I have already called the security company,” Lena said.

“They will be here in an hour.”

My phone buzzed in my hand, a sharp vibration that made me jump.

It was a text message from an unknown number.

I opened it.

It was an image of a certified document.

The header read: *Whitaker Family Capital – Notice of Foreclosure and Transfer of Title.*