“The house belongs in the family, Claire,” he said. “The proper branch of the family.”

“My mother lived here for forty years,” I said.

“And now she is gone,” Arthur said. “I will see you tomorrow.”

The line went dead in my hand.

I lowered the phone and looked at Thomas.

The rain tapped against the tall windows of the study, a steady, rhythmic sound.

“He has the papers ready,” I said.

“Arthur has spent years looking for a loophole,” Thomas said, adjusting his spectacles.

“We cannot let him have the estate,” I said.

Before Thomas could answer, the heavy oak door of the study swung open.

Mark stood in the doorway.

His tie was loosened, and his collar was damp from the rain outside.

His face was flushed, his eyes bright with a desperate anger.

“I heard,” Mark said, stepping into the room.

“Get out, Mark,” I said.

“This is my house too, Claire,” he said, slamming the door behind him.

He walked over to the mahogany desk and leaned his hands on the dark wood.

“I have spent eight years managing this place,” Mark said.