“I don’t want to do this today, Maren,” she said, looking past me toward the hallway. “Dorian is still asleep.”

“He won’t be for long,” I said.

I reached down and popped the heavy brass latches on the front of the box.

The sound was sharp, like a pistol shot in the quiet house.

My mother set her mug down on the counter with a sharp click.

“What is that?” she asked, her eyes narrowing as she looked at the yellowed papers inside.

“These are the original deeds to Dad’s properties in the valley,” I said.

I pulled out the top folder and laid it flat on the clean granite.

“And these,” I continued, tapping a second stack of papers, “are the power of attorney documents Dorian used to initiate the sales.”

She didn’t look at the papers.

Instead, she looked at my face, her expression hardening into a familiar mask of disapproval.

“Dorian has been handling our financial affairs since your father passed,” she said. “He has my full permission.”

“He didn’t have Dad’s permission,” I said.

I flipped open the folder to the signature page of the transfer agreement.