“They won’t be valid without my signature as the co-trustee,” I said.

Dorian laughed, a dry, unpleasant sound.

“We’ll see about that,” he said, picking up his phone again.

He walked out the back door, letting the screen door slam shut behind him.

The cold mountain air rushed into the room through the open doorway.

I looked at my mother, who was nervously adjusting the collar of her sweater.

“How could you let him do this?” I asked her. “Dad built this place with his own hands.”

“Dorian knows how to manage these things,” she said, her voice shaking. “He promised we would keep a small portion of the meadow.”

“He’s lying to you, Mom,” I said. “He’s going to clear-cut the entire ridge for a luxury development.”

“You don’t understand the pressure we’re under,” she said, turning her back to me.

She walked toward the kitchen, her slippers dragging on the floor.

I walked over to the dining table and unrolled the blueprints.

The map showed my father’s property divided into twelve distinct parcels.