“Good afternoon, Mrs. Johnson,” she hummed, the politeness dripping with venom.

“Sit down, Mom,” Tom said. It wasn’t an invitation. It was a command.

I sat in the wingback armchair where I had read him Goodnight Moon a thousand times. Amy locked the front door. The click of the deadbolt echoed like a gunshot in the silent house.

Tom pulled a folded document from his pocket and threw it onto the coffee table. It landed with a soft slap.

“It’s a power of attorney,” he said, his voice devoid of tremor. “You’re going to sign it.”

I looked at the paper, then at him. “A power of attorney? What for, son?”

“So I can manage things. The house. The accounts. Everything.”

“Tom, this house is mine. I worked forty years for it. I am perfectly capable—”