“He broke the front gate, Dad,” Ryan said, his tone turning eager and defensive.

“He drove his truck right through the ironwork.”

Charles did not look toward the driveway.

He kept his eyes locked on mine.

“You are a gardener, Arthur,” Charles said.

“You tend the lawns of people who actually matter in this county.”

“You do not dictate terms to my family.”

Behind him, a woman stepped into the foyer light.

It was Evelyn Whitmore.

She wore a silk robe and held a glass of amber liquid in her hand.

She did not step onto the wet porch, but she watched me with disgust.

“Get him off our property, Charles,” Evelyn said, her voice sharp. “The neighbors will see.”

The wind blew a cold spray of rain across the porch, dampening the stone steps.

The wet slate shone like black glass under the heavy foyer chandelier.

I felt the moisture soaking through my old canvas jacket.

“Emily is leaving with me tonight,” I said.

“She does not belong in this house.”

Charles let out a dry, quiet laugh that died instantly in the cold air.