With a sudden, quiet jerk, I ripped my hand downward, tearing the thick tape away from the raw underside of the desk drawer.

The metal key clinked softly against my palm, cold and heavy.

I slid it into my front pocket and shoved the drawer back into place just as the footsteps reached the landing.

The door to my mother’s study swung open.

Graham stood in the threshold, his dark overcoat damp from the October mist.

He looked at me, his eyes cold and scanning the room before they finally settled on my face.

“You didn’t answer your phone,” he said.

His voice was flat, completely devoid of the warmth he used to fake so well.

“My battery is dead,” I said, keeping my hands flat on the desk behind me.

“You shouldn’t be out here alone, Claire,” he said, taking a slow step into the room.

“This is my mother’s house,” I replied.

He looked at the cardboard boxes stacked on the floor, his eyes narrowing.

“It’s estate property,” he said. “And the estate is currently tied up in litigation.”