The wind slammed against the side of the cabin, making the log walls groan.

A sudden draft swept down the chimney, blowing a cloud of gray ash into the room.

The paper in my father’s hand fluttered in the wind.

He stared at my phone, his grip loosening just a fraction.

The silence in the cabin was absolute, save for the howling of the storm outside.

I held the phone out so he could see the sender’s name.

“It’s Malcolm,” I said.

“What is he doing?” my father asked, his voice harsh.

“He’s doing his job,” I said.

My mother walked closer, trying to peer over my father’s shoulder.

“Richard, look at her,” she said, her voice rising in panic. “She’s too quiet. Something is wrong.”

“Be quiet, Eleanor,” he growled.

He looked back at me, his eyes dark with suspicion.

“What did he send you?” he asked.

“A confirmation,” I said.

“Of what?”

“A confirmation that the probate court in Denver has already received the digital scan of the original document,” I said.

My father’s face went pale.

“That’s impossible,” he said. “The courts are closed for the evening.”