When you throw the front door open, you expect darkness.
Maybe an empty porch.
Maybe Megan’s smug face turning pale in the rain.
Instead, you find three people standing there.
Your father’s attorney, Mr. Thompson.
A uniformed sheriff’s deputy.
And your aunt Ruth, still wearing the black coat she had worn to your parents’ funeral.
For one long second, nobody moves.
Behind you, Jason is breathing hard, clutching his injured wrist. Your lip is bleeding. The dining room smells like spilled wine, broken roses, old wood, and fear finally turning into something sharper.
Mr. Thompson’s eyes move from your face to Jason, then to the folder on the dining table.
His expression changes.
Not with surprise.
With recognition.
Like he had been waiting for exactly this.
“Olivia,” he says gently, “step onto the porch.”
Jason snaps, “This is private.”
The sheriff’s deputy looks past you into the house. “Sir, step away from her.”
Jason’s face twists. “I’m her husband.”
Aunt Ruth’s voice cuts through the room like broken glass.
