He simply sighed, as if I were a child who had failed a simple test.

“Dr. Marren is a professional,” Harrison said.

“He merely documented your fragile mental state.”

“A state that has clearly worsened tonight.”

“Nobody will believe you,” I said.

“Grace is upstairs right now.”

“She has the power of attorney.”

Harrison took a slow, menacing step forward.

“Grace is an attorney,” he said.

“She works with documents, not hysteria.”

“And without you there to sign the emergency petition, she is useless.”

I backed away, but my heel struck the iron chest.

There was nowhere left to run.

The cellar was a dead end.

“Give me the deed, Vivian,” he said.

He reached out his hand, palm upward.

His fingers were manicured, clean, and completely still.

“I will not,” I said.

I reached into my pocket, but not for the deed.

My fingers wrapped around my phone.

I needed to send the photos of the signatures to Grace.

I pulled the phone out and swiped the screen.

There was no signal.

The thick stone walls and the depth of the vault had cut off the reception completely.