“Whitaker and my primary investor go back twenty years,” Trevor said, his voice dripping with sudden confidence.

My mother gasped, looking at him in surprise.

“Trevor, you told Harold the judge was completely impartial,” she said.

“He is, Denise,” Trevor said, not looking at her. “To the people who matter.”

He turned toward the flatbed truck and raised his hand to the driver.

“Shut it down,” Trevor yelled.

The driver turned the key, and the heavy rumbling of the diesel engine stopped, plunging the ridge into a sudden, heavy silence.

The only sound left was the wind whistling through the pines.

“We’re leaving,” Trevor said to my mother.

“But Trevor, the home,” she whispered, her hands shaking.

“Get in the car, Denise,” he said, his voice cold and commanding.

My mother looked at me, her eyes filled with a desperate, silent apology.

“Come with me, Mom,” I said, reaching out my hand to her. “Let me drive you home.”

She looked at my hand, then at Trevor, who was already walking toward his SUV.

She hesitated, her foot shifting on the gravel.