“Dorian just told me he sold the mountain cabin,” I said, my voice tight.

The line went quiet except for the sound of shuffling paper on his end.

I could picture him in his wood-paneled office in Denver, surrounded by leather books.

“He thinks he did,” Voss said quietly.

“What does that mean?” I asked, leaning my shoulder against the warm metal of the truck.

“Your stepfather is looking at a copy of an old deed,” Voss said.

“But he doesn’t have the legal authority to execute a sale.”

“Is the cabin safe?” I asked.

“Completely,” Voss said. “Your father put that cabin into a private trust ten years ago. You are the sole trustee.”

I let out a long breath, watching a helicopter hover in the distance.

“Dorian has no right to touch it,” Voss continued. “And that is only the beginning.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Your father knew Dorian’s patterns,” Voss said.

“He knew your mother would let Dorian spend every dime he could get his hands on.”

“So he hid the assets,” I said.

“Exactly,” Voss said. “There are other properties. Three of them, held under various holding companies.”

“Why am I just hearing about this now?” I asked.

“The trust terms were very specific,” Voss said. “I was instructed to keep them quiet unless Dorian tried to touch the cabin.”

He paused, and I heard the distinct sound of a desk drawer sliding open.

“There is one more piece of property we need to discuss immediately, Maren.”

“Which one?” I asked.

“The primary residence in Dallas,” Voss said.

“My mother and Dorian’s house?” I asked. “They own that. Dorian brags about having no mortgage.”

“They don’t own it,” Voss said.

“Your father quietly purchased the primary mortgage debt on that residence six years ago through a shell company.”

“What does that mean?” I asked, my heart hammering.