The damp, cold air rushed into the warm kitchen, smelling of ozone and wet pine.

Julian stood under the porch light.

His expensive wool coat was soaked at the shoulders.

His dark hair was plastered to his forehead.

His eyes were bloodshot, surrounded by dark shadows.

“Elena,” he said, stepping forward.

I stood my ground in the doorway.

“This is far enough, Julian,” I said.

Martin Bell stepped between us, his leather briefcase held close to his chest.

“Let us inside, Mrs. Blackwood,” Martin said. “It is freezing out here, and we have business to conclude.”

Lydia nodded to me.

“It is fine, Elena,” she said. “Let them in.”

I stepped aside.

They filed into the small kitchen.

Julian smelled of rain, expensive cologne, and stale whiskey.

He looked around the simple cottage with clear disdain, but his bravado was gone.

The notary, a local woman named Sarah, stood quietly near the door.

We moved to the wooden dining table in the corner.

I did not offer them tea or coffee.

I did not offer them chairs.

Lydia unzipped her leather bag and pulled out a thick stack of papers.