My fingers hovered over the screen, but I did not reply.

I needed her to stand firm this time.

She had spent decades hiding behind Gregory’s shadow, pretending the wealth made up for the silence.

The road flattened out as we reached the crest of the hill.

The tall iron gates of the Richards estate appeared through the morning fog.

They were wide open.

A black sedan was parked sideways across the driveway, its hazard lights blinking in the grey light.

The driver of our SUV slowed down, his foot hovering over the brake.

“Hold,” the agent said, his hand reaching for his door handle.

A man in a dark grey suit stepped out of the sedan, holding his hands in the air.

It was Gregory’s personal defense attorney, a man I had seen in newspaper clippings for years.

Our driver brought the SUV to a halt, the gravel crunching under the heavy tires.

The agent rolled down his window, letting in the damp, cold air of the hills.

“Identify yourself,” the agent called out.

“I am legal representation for Gregory Richards,” the lawyer said, his voice shaking slightly.