The rain tapped against the high windows of the Fremont house.

It was cold for October, the dampness creeping through the old floorboards.

I stood in my father’s study, looking at the walnut desk.

My grandmother Abigail had given him this house, but it was never enough for him.

He wanted the Sonoma ranch, the Sacramento commercial blocks, and every cent in the trust.

The door behind me clicked shut.

I turned and saw my father, Mark Darcy.

He carried a black aluminum baseball bat, the metal scratching against his gold wedding ring.

His face was flushed, his eyes narrow and dry.

“You are going to sign the papers, Alana,” he said.

He threw a thick manila folder onto the desk.

The papers slid out, printed with the blue seal of Abigail’s estate.

“Grandmother wanted the Sonoma ranch to remain a sanctuary,” I said.

My voice shook, but I kept my shoulders straight.

“Abigail was an old fool, and she is dead,” Mark said.

He took two steps closer, his leather boots heavy on the Persian rug.

“You have ten seconds to sign the transfer of ownership.”

“No,” I said.

“I have Ana Brennan’s instructions, Mark. The estate is protected by the trust.”

“I know about the offshore accounts in Panama,” I added, trying to buy time.

Mark laughed, a dry, humorless sound.

“You don’t know anything, Alana,” he said.

“Your grandmother is gone, and no one is coming to save you.”

His jaw tightened, a muscle jumping in his cheek.

He did not argue any further.

He did not raise his voice.

He simply raised the bat.

I tried to step back, but my heel caught on the edge of the heavy wooden chair.

The aluminum bat swung in a short, brutal arc.

It struck my right forearm with a dull, wet crack.

The pain did not hit me immediately.

First came the cold shock, then my arm went completely numb.

I fell against the edge of the desk, my breath caught in my throat.

Then the burning started, hot and sharp, radiating up to my shoulder.

I looked down at my arm.