Her hands began to shake.

“What do you mean frozen?” she whispered.

“I have a lunch appointment.”

“I have bills to pay.”

“You cannot freeze my money.”

“It is not your money, Claire,” my father said from the end of the driveway.

She snapped her head around, her eyes locking onto us.

Her face twisted in rage.

“Daniel,” she spat.

She walked down the steps, her heels clicking loudly on the wet stone.

“You did this,” she said, pointing a finger at him.

“You played the poor handyman while you set us up.”

“I built that company,” my father said quietly.

“You and your father stole from it.”

“We took what we deserved!” she yelled.

“You hid your wealth from me!”

“I protected my business from a family of thieves,” he said.

Just then, two officers walked my grandfather out of the front door.

Martin Collins was in handcuffs.

His expensive wool coat was draped over his shoulders, but his hands were secured behind his back.

His face was red, and sweat beaded on his forehead despite the cold air.

“Daniel!” Martin roared, struggling against the officer’s grip.