The light illuminated his wrinkled forehead and the deep lines around his mouth.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a heavy silver pen.

He did not look at me as he signed his name on the designated line.

The tip of the pen scratched loudly against the thick paper.

He threw the pen onto the table, where it rolled and stopped against the folder.

My mother grabbed it, her hand shaking so badly she could barely write.

She scribbled her signature next to his, her eyes fixed on the floor.

I took the documents, verified both signatures, and placed them back inside my coat pocket.

I unmuted the phone.

“Detective Harris,” I said. “The break-in was committed by independent actors. I will head to the station tomorrow morning to sign the complaint.”

“Understood, Miss Vance,” the detective said. “We will see you tomorrow.”

I ended the call and slipped the phone into my pocket.

My parents stood in the center of the cabin, looking smaller than they ever had in my life.

“Get out,” I said.

My father picked up his coat from the back of the wooden chair.