“I’ll gather my grandfather’s old tax files tonight,” I said.

“Do that,” Daniel said.

“And keep those court papers somewhere safe.”

I drove home through the dark streets toward Cedar Lane.

The historic 1920s farmhouse stood quiet against the dark pines, its tall windows catching the faint moonlight.

Knox met me at the door, his tail sweeping slowly across the floorboards.

I walked into the kitchen, switched on the small overhead lamp, and refilled the copper kettle on the stove.

I sat down at the wooden table, feeling the dull, steady ache in my right knee as the cold air crept in through the window frame.