“If you don’t turn around right now, I’m going to make sure you never walk again.”

I looked at his hands on the bat.

His grip was tense, his fingers twitching.

He was used to intimidating people with his size and his family’s name.

He did not know who I was before I became a gardener.

Behind him, the heavy oak front door of the mansion slowly began to swing open.

A bright light from the foyer spilled out onto the wet stone of the porch.

Charles Whitmore stepped into the light.

He wore a dark wool coat over a tailored suit that cost more than my truck.

His silver hair was combed back, unaffected by the damp wind.

He looked down at me from the top of the porch steps with cold, dismissive eyes.

“What is the meaning of this, Arthur?” Charles asked.

His voice was deep, practiced, and entirely devoid of warmth.

“I came for Emily,” I said.

I kept my hands loose at my sides, my fingers relaxed.

Ryan took half a step back, aligning himself with his father.