A sudden, loud crash echoed from the upstairs hallway, followed by the sound of glass shattering.

Thomas and I froze, our eyes locked in the sudden silence that followed.

“Stay here,” Thomas whispered, his hand reaching toward the heavy iron fire poker near the hearth.

“No,” I said, stepping past him. “This is my house.”

We walked out of the study and into the dimly lit foyer, our shoes quiet on the Persian rug.

At the top of the grand staircase, a shadow moved against the wallpaper.

Mark stood on the landing, his tie loosened and an empty crystal tumbler shattered at his feet.

He was swaying slightly, his fingers gripping the mahogany banister for support.

“Claire,” he said, his voice thick with alcohol. “What are you doing down there with the help?”

“Thomas is my mother’s attorney, Mark, not the help,” I said, keeping my voice level.

“He shouldn’t be here,” Mark muttered, looking past me toward the open study door. “None of this is his business anymore.”

Patricia stepped out of the guest room behind him, her silk robe tied tightly around her waist.