I heard him dial a number.

He put the phone to his ear, pacing in a small circle.

“It didn’t work,” he hissed into the phone.

“The whole place is rigged.”

“She knew.”

“I don’t care about the journals, Helena!” he barked, using my mother’s name.

“We need to get out of here.”

“The local cops might already be on their way.”

He hung up and ran toward his black pickup truck parked in the driveway.

He threw his door open, the interior light illuminating his mud-streaked face.

I walked out from the shadow of the pine tree, stepping into the clearing.

“Going somewhere, Dorian?” I called out.

He froze, his hand on the steering wheel.

He turned slowly, his eyes wide with a mixture of fear and rage.

“Maren,” he spat, stepping back down to the gravel.

“What did you do?”

“I protected my father’s property,” I said, keeping my distance.

“Which is more than I can say for you.”

He took a step toward me, his fists clenching.

“You think you are so smart with your little army toys,” he growled.