My father followed behind her, wearing a heavy wool overcoat and a dark leather cap.

He closed the door behind him and locked it, his eyes immediately scanning the small room.

“It’s freezing in here,” my mother said, shivering as she pulled her collar up.

“The fire is just getting started,” I said, staying near the hearth.

My father brushed snow off his shoulders and looked at me, his eyes cold and assessing.

“Let’s get this over with, Avery,” he said, his voice deep and impatient.

“We didn’t drive up this mountain to socialize.”

“I didn’t invite you to socialize,” I said.

My mother walked over to the table, her boots clicking loudly on the bare floorboards.

She stopped when she saw the yellowed piece of paper lying in the center of the wood.

She stared at it, her expression hardening.

“What is this?” she asked.

“You recognize your own handwriting, don’t you?” I asked.

My father stepped up beside her, his gaze dropping to the paper.

His jaw clenched.

“That is ancient history,” he said, looking back at me.

“It has nothing to do with Elliot’s estate.”