“This land is ours.”

“Your mother signed the papers.”

“My mother didn’t own this cabin, Dorian,” I said.

“My father put it in a blind trust.”

“The deed you tried to sell last week was a forgery.”

He sneered, though his eyes darted toward the road behind me.

He was looking for an escape route.

“You can’t prove anything,” he said.

“A little fire damage on a shed means nothing.”

“I have you on camera,” I said, pointing to the small lens hidden under the eaves of the main cabin.

“And I have the chemical analysis of the gasoline you just poured.”

In the distance, the low rumble of an engine echoed up the mountain road.

Headlights swept through the trees, growing brighter by the second.

Dorian’s face went pale.

He scrambled back into his truck, slamming the door.

He started the engine, the V8 roaring to life.

He threw the truck into reverse, tires spinning on the wet gravel.

He backed up toward the property line, aiming for the main dirt road.

But he didn’t make it far.