These papers held the proof of how Richard had stolen millions from the foundation.

They proved how he had silenced my mother when she threatened to go to the police.

The study door creaked open.

A beam of light from a heavy flashlight swept across the room.

It caught the edge of the desk where we hid.

“I can see your shadow, Claire,” Richard said.

He stepped into the room.

He wore a wet trench coat, rainwater dripping from the hem onto the hardwood floor.

In his right hand, he held a heavy silver flashlight.

In his left hand, he held a small, silver canister of lighter fluid and a brass lighter.

He knew exactly what he wanted to do.

He wanted to burn the past.

“Give me the books,” Richard said, stopping in the middle of the room.

Gabriel stood up from behind the desk, stepping between my father and me.

“That is as far as you go, Richard,” Gabriel said.

Richard let out a dry, humorless laugh.

“Gabriel Vale,” Richard said. “The boy from the wrong side of the tracks who made a career out of playing soldier.”