The air inside was cold and smelled faintly of woodsmoke.

Vance looked up as the door opened, his shoulders jerking back against the metal chair.

“Voss,” Vance said, his voice cracking. “Thank God. Tell them this is a mistake. I was just out there checking the boundary lines.”

“With kerosene, Arthur?” Miller asked, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed.

“The grass was overgrown,” Vance stammered. “It was a fire hazard. Dorian told me to clear the brush near the old cabin.”

“You set fire to a historic structure on state-adjacent land,” Voss said, sitting down across from him. “That is first-degree arson. It’s a felony, Arthur. There is no bail for this under the current county guidelines.”

Vance’s gaze shifted to me, his eyes wide and pleading.

“Maren, please,” he said. “I’ve known your family for years. I handled your father’s first land purchase.”

“Then you should have known better than to help Dorian steal it,” I said.

I stood behind Voss, keeping my hands resting flat on the back of his chair.