Behind her, in the dim interior of the cabin, I heard a man’s voice shouting on a phone.

“Maren?” my mother whispered, her hand trembling against the door frame.

Before I could answer, a loud crash came from the back of the house.

The sound of shattering glass echoed through the pines.

My mother flinched, spilling a few drops of coffee onto her wool sweater.

“What was that?” I asked, pushing my way past her into the cabin’s narrow entryway.

“Maren, please, you shouldn’t be here,” she whispered, reaching out to grab my sleeve.

I pulled my arm back, my boots leaving damp tracks on the worn hardwood floor.

The cabin smelled of damp wood, stale smoke, and the expensive cologne Dorian always wore.

In the living room, a heavy pine coffee table had been pushed aside, and several of my father’s old books lay scattered on the rug.

Dorian Pike stood near the back hallway, his face red, holding a phone to his ear.

At his feet lay the shards of a green glass lamp that had sat on my father’s desk for thirty years.