Richard walked over to the tall windows and pulled back the heavy velvet curtain.

I stood beside him, looking out into the cold, gray morning.

A sleek black Mercedes SUV was racing up the long, winding driveway, kicking up mud and wet leaves.

It screeched to a halt right in front of the grand stone steps of Richard’s house.

The driver’s door opened.

Margaret Whitmore stepped out.

Even in the dim morning light, she looked imposing.

She wore a long, tailored mink coat, her silver hair perfectly coiffed, though her face was twisted in a mask of pure rage.

She did not look like a grandmother.

She looked like a predator whose prey had finally slipped from her grasp.

She slammed the car door shut and marched toward the grand entrance.

Below us, the heavy oak front doors of the mansion creaked as the automatic locks engaged.

A second later, a loud, heavy pounding began to echo from the grand foyer downstairs.

Margaret was banging on the door.

“Thomas!” her voice shrieked, muffled by the thick wood and glass, but still carrying up the stairs.