The silence between us was heavy, filled with thirty years of built-up resentment.

Suddenly, the glass entry doors of the lobby slid open with a soft hiss.

A man in a dark suit walked in, carrying a leather briefcase.

He looked around the lobby, his eyes landing directly on me.

He stopped a few feet away from us and adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses.

“Mr. Mark Collins?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said.

He reached into his leather briefcase and pulled out a thick manila envelope.

“This is for you,” he said, handing it toward me.

I did not take it.

“What is this?” I asked.

Linda stepped forward and snatched the envelope from his hand before I could refuse it again.

“Thank you, Arthur,” she said to the man.

The man nodded, turned on his heel, and walked back out into the humid Miami night.

“These are the temporary guardianship papers,” Linda said, holding the envelope against her chest.

“I am not signing anything tonight,” I said.

“You have to,” Hannah said, her voice rising in panic. “Our flight leaves in less than two hours.”