“Marisol,” I whispered when she picked up.

“Claire? It’s past midnight. Is everything alright?” My attorney’s voice was instantly awake. Marisol was a shark in a tailored suit, a woman who genuinely enjoyed a crisis.

“They’re coming. Ryan, Dad, and Megan. They’re on the road right now.” I moved to the kitchen window and looked out through the blinds into nothing. “Ryan threatened to break the windows if I don’t let them in.

He says Dad took care of the paperwork and the house isn’t mine because I’m sick.”

A sharp intake of breath. “Claire, listen to me. Stay away from the doors. Did you find the boxes?”

My eyes went to the hallway. Earlier that evening, unpacking, I’d cut open a heavy sealed tote forwarded from my mother’s estate attorney. It was supposed to be old photographs and tax documents.