“Richard!” my mother cried out, her hands flying to her mouth.

My father stood back, watching the ashes rise up the chimney.

“Now,” he said, turning back to me. “We have nothing more to talk about.”

I stared at the empty fireplace grates, where the only piece of my childhood that remained had just turned to dust.

But I didn’t cry.

I didn’t scream.

I just looked at my father, and then I looked down at my phone.

The screen was still lit up with Malcolm’s last message.

I hadn’t read the whole thing.

I swiped the screen again to reveal the rest of the text.

The message was longer than I thought.

I read the words, and a cold smile touched my lips.

My father saw my expression, and his smile faded.

“What is it?” he asked, his voice suddenly sharp.

“You should have asked your lawyers about Elliot’s safe before you had it stolen,” I said.

“What are you talking about?” he asked.

I held the phone up, the screen shining in the dim cabin light.

“The safe at the warehouse was a decoy,” I said.