“They will when they see it’s a signed confession of abandonment,” I said. “Malcolm says Colorado law is very specific about the rights of dependents who were left without support.”

My father’s eyes narrowed.

He looked at the note, then at the fire, then back to me.

“You think you’re smart, Avery,” he said, taking a slow step toward me. “You think you can play lawyer.”

“I don’t have to play,” I said. “I have Malcolm.”

“Malcolm is an old man living on borrowed time,” my father said. “He can’t save you from a real legal team.”

“He’s already doing it,” I said.

The wind rattled the front door, a heavy gust shaking the wooden frame.

My mother shivered and pulled her mink coat closer.

“Can we please just sign the papers and go?” she pleaded, her voice cracking slightly. “It’s freezing, and the storm is getting worse.”

“We sign when Avery agrees to a reasonable number,” my father said, his gaze never leaving my face.

“I already told you my terms,” I said. “You leave Northline alone. You renounce your claim to the warehouse and the fleet.”