“I’ll burn this place down before you leave here with them,” he said.

He took a step toward me, his hands curling into fists.

A floorboard creaked in the kitchen behind us.

Mark spun around, his hand reaching for a heavy brass lamp on the side table.

“Who’s there?” he shouted.

“Mark, put the lamp down,” a calm, clear voice said.

It was Ana Brennan.

She stood in the doorway of the kitchen, holding a flashlight in one hand.

Behind her, the silhouette of a deputy rose in the shadows.

“It’s over, Mark,” Ana said. “The sheriff has the entire road blocked.”

Mark laughed, a high, nervous sound.

“You think you can just walk in here and take what’s mine?” he said.

“It was never yours,” Ana said.

She stepped into the living room, keeping the flashlight beam pointed at the floor so as not to blind him.

“Abigail’s will is already probate-certified,” Ana said. “Alana is the sole executor.”

“The will is a fraud,” Mark said. “She was incompetent. Vale wrote the evaluation.”

“Vale is currently in handcuffs in Sacramento,” Ana replied.