“Garrett loved his business,” I said. “He built it from nothing.”

“And you two treated him like a dying cash register,” I said.

I felt a tear slip down my cheek, cold and wet.

“He was your father,” I whispered.

“He was a stubborn old man who didn’t understand modern business,” Victoria said.

She took another step toward me, her hand reaching out slightly.

“Give me the folder, Eleanor,” she said.

“No,” I said, stepping back against the windowpane.

The cold glass pressed through my thin cardigan.

“This goes to the probate judge,” I said. “And then it goes to the district attorney.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Charles said, though he looked ready to faint.

“You evicted me from my home of thirty years,” I said.

“You threw my things into the mud,” I reminded him.

“You told the sheriff I was nothing but a squatter in Garrett’s life.”

Victoria looked at Charles, a silent, desperate message passing between them.

The arrogance in her posture began to crumble, replaced by something much tighter.

“Let’s not do anything rash,” Victoria said, her tone suddenly shifting.