“Be quiet, Juliette,” Mark snapped, not looking at her.

“Not now.”

“Is it true?” she persisted, her voice rising.

“Is it all hers?”

Thomas closed the leather folder with a soft, final thud.

“Every penny,” he said.

The wind outside struck the glass of the tall arched windows with a sudden, violent gust.

The heavy drapes swayed slightly in the draft.

Mark looked at me, his eyes narrowing to slits.

“You think you’ve won, Claire?” he whispered, stepping closer to the edge of the stage.

“I don’t want to win, Mark,” I said, rising from my chair.

“I just want my mother’s house back.”

The double doors at the back of the recital hall rattled.

A low hum began to vibrate through the floorboards.

Everyone turned toward the entrance.

The heavy oak doors began to swing inward.

A man in a dark grey suit stood in the doorway, a tablet in his hand.

He looked directly at Thomas, then at Mark.

The screen of Mark’s phone, sitting on the piano lid, suddenly lit up.

It began to buzz, vibrating against the polished wood.