The sound shattered six months of quiet I had fought like hell for. I stared at the glowing caller ID on the heavy plastic receiver.

Ryan. My older brother.

Cold coiled in my gut. My family didn’t call to see how I was doing. They called when they needed leverage, or a check. I nearly let it ring — but the sheer strangeness of him having this number stopped me.

I’d given the satellite line to exactly two people: my attorney, Marisol, and, foolishly, my father, Arthur. Just in case.

I picked up. “Hello?”

“Claire. Listen to me very carefully.” Ryan’s voice came through the static with none of his usual arrogant drawl. He sounded breathless. Cornered. Behind him I could hear an engine being pushed too hard.

“We are ten miles out. You are going to open that front door the second we pull up.”

My hand tightened on the receiver. “What are you talking about? Who is we?”

“Dad and me. And Megan. We have the paperwork, Claire. It’s done. Dad took care of it.” His pitch climbed toward manic. “Do not lock us out. If you lock that door, I swear to God I will smash the glass to pieces.

I don’t care about the storm. I don’t care about your feelings. We are coming inside.”

“Ryan, you are not coming near my house,” I said, keeping my voice level while my pulse slammed against my ribs. “This is private property.”

“It’s not yours anymore!” The audio peaked into a crackle. “You’re sick, Claire! You don’t know what you’re doing! Don’t make this ugly. Open the damn door, or I’ll break it down!”