He kicked a pile of encyclopedias out of his way.

He reached for the desk drawers.

The bottom drawer was locked.

Mark picked up a heavy iron fireplace poker from the hearth.

He shoved the tip into the gap above the drawer and leaned his weight on it.

The wood splintered with a loud crack.

I stepped into the doorway.

“You always did prefer destruction to work,” I said.

Mark froze.

He slowly turned around, the iron poker still in his hand.

His eyes were bloodshot and wide.

When he saw me, a slow, ugly grin spread across his face.

“Alana,” he said.

“You shouldn’t have come here, dad,” I said.

He took a step toward me, holding the poker low at his side.

“This is my house,” he said. “Everything she had belongs to me.”

“Abigail left this ranch to me,” I said. “You know that.”

He laughed, a dry, coughing sound.

“She was crazy,” Mark said. “The courts will see that.”

“She wasn’t crazy,” I said. “She just knew what you were.”

Mark’s face darkened, the grin disappearing.

“You think you’re smart, don’t you?” he said.