“We have the proof,” I said, killing the engine. “Now we call the lawyers.”

“We wait,” Grandpa said. His calm was eerie. “Everything that needs to be in that house is already in it. We let them come through the door believing they’ve won.”

I helped him out, the wind tearing at our coats, and we made it to the porch shivering hard. I turned my key in the heavy oak door and pushed, expecting the dark, hollow silence we’d left behind.

Instead the entryway was blazing with light.

Standing on the Persian rug, casually brushing snow off the shoulders of her cream cashmere coat, was my mother. Beside her stood my father, his face a mottled, angry pink, his jaw locked in that old expression of forced authority.

Hovering behind them was Caleb, pale, terrified, refusing to look at me.